No one mentioned the labor racketeering charges Mike had been jailed for. No need. Most of the men were hard-core union. A few were old enough to remember the lead-pipe-and-dynamite days when Walter Reuther was beaten half to death by company thugs on the Miller Road overpass and old Henry Ford mounted a machine gun on his factory roof.
Bottom line, they were Irish. And knew a bit about men being imprisoned for their politics. And right or wrong, Commie or no, Iron Mike was family.
Amid the din of a dozen conversations and laughter, no one noticed the buzzer but Sean. He hurried to the door just as his mom opened it. To the FBI.
"Good evenin', welcome, and Merry Christmas to you both,” Mother Meg said, ushering them in. “You must be—"
"Gia, the love of my life,” Sean said, sweeping the startled agent into his arms and kissing her soundly on the mouth. And holding it as their eyes met. Hers flashed, but she held the kiss as long as he did, and gave him an extra hug when it was over.
"A girl that blushes.” Mother Meg grinned. “Didn't think there were any left, let alone that Sean could find one. And you'd be the brother?"
"Yes, ma'am.” Vanston nodded, shaking her hand. “Carl Moscone. Call me Carl, call me Carlo, just don't call me late for dinner."
"Well, if you've brought an appetite you're at the right place, Carl. We've enough tucker here to feed an army."
"Or a Red Brigade,” Sean said blandly. “Come on in, kids, meet the gang.” He ushered the agents through the crowded living room, making introductions all the way. Ending up at the dining-room doorway where Mike was leaning against the door.
"Gia and Carl Moscone, this is my famous outlaw brother, Iron Michael O'Donnell."
"Welcome and Merry Christmas,” Mike said, shaking hands with both of them. “Wow. Another rangy, redheaded beauty. Can't imagine how my brother finds them."
"I thought he preferred blondes,” Gia said.
"Did Sean tell you that? If nobody's warned you yet, miss, you'd better beware of my little brother. Beneath that button-down banker's disguise, Sean's more mischief than all my rowdies put together."
"I find that hard to believe,” Gia said. “Sean claims you're an evil mastermind."
"See, there he goes, fibbin’ again. I'm just a humble labor negotiator, miss. And what is it you do?"
"Nothing very interesting, Mr. O'Donnell. I write advertising."
"A pity you're not in management. I wouldn't mind negotiating a deal with you myself."
"Hey, do you mind?” Sean chimed in. “This woman's going to bear my children."
"Just what the world needs, more skinflint bankers,” his brother shot back. “And you, Carl? Mike said you play a little poker. We'll be puttin’ a little game together later. Care to join us?"
"Love to.” Vanston smiled. “Hope you don't mind losing your allowance."
"A bold talker with a beautiful sister.” Mike grinned, wrapping an arm around the agent's shoulder. “This'll be a holiday to remember. Come on, Carl, let me find you a drink.” Mike led him off through the crowd to the kitchen.
"Well,” Gia said, taking a deep breath, glancing around to be sure they weren't overheard. “That went well. You think he suspects anything?"
"Why should he?” Sean shrugged. “He's an honest man."
"He's a Communist thug."
"Who doesn't pretend to be anything else. Which is more than I can say for either of us."
"Cool it, O'Donnell, we're not the bad guys here. I'm doing my job and you're saving your ass. If your brother's not guilty of anything, he has nothing to worry about. And by the way, don't go overboard with the kissing thing."
"Gee, Red, we're supposed to be in love and the Irish are an affectionate race. So are the Italians, come to think of it."
"We also have a pretty good gag reflex."
"Really? Then how do you explain eels in clam sauce?"
"Ah, there you are, you two.” Mama Meg came bustling up. “Gia, you and your brother are staying over, I hope."
"I'm sure they have other plans, Ma—” Sean began.
"Not at all,” Gia interrupted. “We'd be delighted, Mrs. O'Donnell."
"Wonderful. Lord knows I've waited long enough for Sean to bring a girl home, but I must say it was worth the wait. What's your favorite pie, dear?"
"My fav—? Lemon meringue, but—"
"You don't say! Mine too! I know a wonderful recipe. Let's hope none of these lunkheads like it so we can eat it up ourselves."
"Please, Mrs. O'Donnell, don't go to any trouble—"
"No trouble atall, dear. I love to cook, though you'd never know from this skinny rail I've raised. Will you two be sharing Sean's old room, then?"
Gia opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again, looking to Sean for help. Didn't get any; he was all wide-eyed innocence.
"A girl that blushes,” Meg repeated, shaking her head. “Who'd have thought? Never you mind, dear, we'll find you a bedroom of your own. The boys'll be playin’ cards most of the night anyway."
"Thank you,” Gia said, flashing a death-ray glare at Sean.
"Not a bit of it. You'd best keep this one, Sean, I like an old-fashioned girl. By the way, did you get the chance to look over that reverse mortgage I sent you?"
"Not yet, Ma. Things have been a bit ... hectic at the bank,” he said, returning Gia's glare. “I'll get to it first thing after the holidays, promise."
"All right, but one of the dates on it is in January, so—"
"Relax, Ma, I've got it covered. No more business. It's Christmas."
"You're right.” Meg beamed, bustling back to the kitchen.
"If you look after your own accounts the way you see to your mom's, no wonder you're short a half million,” Gia said.
"I'm not short, the computer is. And leave my mom's business out of this, okay? I thought you were here to—” He broke off, realizing their raised voices were attracting attention. “Maybe we'd better go for a walk. I'll show you the old neighborhood."
"Poker game's starting, Sean,” Mike said, carrying beers back from the kitchen. “You want in?"
"Bankers can't gamble, bad for our image. Watch yourself with my brother, Carl. He's a crook."
In the street, Sean put his arm around Gia's shoulders. She tried to pull free but he pulled her closer.
"That Hummer limo parked down the street is Mike's,” he murmured in her ear. “His driver's at the wheel, watching the street and watching us. Better make it look good."
"You were supposed to help me fit in. What are we doing out here?"
"Strolling arm in arm, like the lovebirds we're supposed to be. In case you hadn't noticed, the poker game isn't co-ed. If you hang around asking questions, it'll only draw attention to the fact you're a stranger. Carl's in the game and Mike's half in the bag. If there's anything to get, your guy's in the right place."
"While we do what?"
"We could neck under a streetlight, you know, to make it look realistic."
"I'd rather walk, thank you. Where to?"
"Around the block, I guess. It's a nice neighborhood, I grew up here. Rode my bike to school, played touch football on weekends."
"And college ball at Michigan State."
He glanced at her. “You've done your homework."
"To be honest, you're a bit of a puzzle to me, Mr. O'Donnell. You and your brother, both. Your mom seems like a good person—"
"The best. Salt of the earth."
"And you grew up in a nice home, apparently didn't lack for much—"
"Except for a father. Neither of us had one for long."
"Lots of boys grow up without fathers these days. They don't all become labor racketeers..."
"Or crooked bankers,” he finished for her.
"Exactly. Maybe you could explain that to me."
"Are you asking me to incriminate myself?"
"Your bank's computers have already done that. It's open-and-shut. The only thing that'll save you now is your cooperation..
.. What are you staring at?"
"You. Mom's right. With that snow in your hair, you're really very lovely."
"Save the snow job, O'Donnell. It won't keep me from hauling you out of your mom's house in cuffs. And by the way, you really should take a close look at that reverse mortgage she mentioned."
"No kidding? Do you guys moonlight in real-estate loans when you're not harassing innocent citizens?"
"No, but our office fields complaints, and lately a lot of them have involved reverse mortgages. Older people sign over their homes in return for a monthly payment—in effect, a mortgage in reverse. The problem's in the fine print. They think the agreement promises them payments for life, but some are strictly short-term, only a year or two. Perfectly legal, but damned unfair. Your mom—"
"Leave my mom out of this. You're not our friend. You've bullied your way into our home looking for dirt on my brother. How do you people sleep at night?"
"Not all that well, sometimes,” she admitted, looking away. “You're a loan officer at the bank, right? Do you like your job, Mr. O'Donnell?"
"Sure, for the most part. I enjoy helping people improve their lives."
"But that's not always possible, is it? You certainly can't approve every application, can you? Do you enjoy saying no?"
"Of course not. But sometimes it's necessary. Why?"
"Because there are aspects of my job I don't like either. As for your mom, I was just—"
"Butting into something that's none of your business, Agent Sirico,” he said coldly, cutting her off. “A local real-estate broker wrote the agreement, I'm sure it's fine. We'd better get back. You might miss something incriminating."
* * * *
The party was winding down, the last of the guests saying their goodbyes, shaking hands with one another, embracing Mama Meg, calling out “Merry Christmas” as they walked to their cars in the gently falling snow.
Inside, the poker game was well under way, men in shirtsleeves around the dining-room table, Iron Mike and his bodyguards, a city councilman, two union officers, Carl Vanston, and a reporter for the Detroit Free Press.
"Did you two have a nice walk?” Mama Meg called from the kitchen.
"Lovely, Ma."
"Good. Be nice to this girl, son. She's special."
Sean sighed. “You don't know the half of it."
"Special or not, it's been a long day,” Gia said. “I think I'll call it a night."
"Me too,” Sean said. “I'll walk you up.” When they reached the top of the stairs, he said, “Your bedroom's just two doors down from mine. And since we're supposed to be lovers..."
"Forget it,” Gia said. “What would your mother think? And just in case you sleepwalk, I sleep with a gun under my pillow."
"Sounds uncomfortable."
"It works for me. See you in the morning, O'Donnell. And not before."
"Yes, ma'am. Sleep well."
In his bedroom, Sean quickly stripped off his tie, put on a leather jacket and a black watch cap pulled down low. Raising his bedroom window, he eased out over the jamb and slid silently down the TV antenna.
Keeping to the shadows, he threaded his way through deserted backyards to a side street where a nondescript black rental waited. Beeping it open, Sean fired it up and drove sedately out onto the suburban streets, his speed well below the limit.
Across town, he pulled into a McDonald's, open twenty-four hours even on Christmas Eve. Leaving his car at the rear, he walked away, his shoulders hunched against the cold.
Over the next six blocks the neighborhood morphed from working-class to upwardly mobile professionals, two- and three-story Dutch gabled homes with three-car garages.
Checking his Palm Pilot for the address, Sean took a quick look around, then ducked behind the garage, trotting to the backyard. With a passkey, he let himself into the rec room, then moved silently through the darkened house to the master bedroom.
Easing inside, he switched on a laser penlight and crept silently to the head of the bed. Kneeling, he played the light across the eyelids of the sleeping man until they snapped open. And widened.
"Mr. Beckham?"
"What—Who are you? How did you get in here?"
"Hush. None of that matters. Peter Beckham, I'm the Ghost of Christmas Past."
"I—I don't keep money here."
"I don't want money. All I want is a word. Say the right word and I'm gone."
"What word?"
"The password. To the computers at your realty office."
"What? I can't do that. And it wouldn't be of any use to you. There's no money there, either."
"Did I ask for money? Say the word and I will do you a tremendous favor."
"What favor?"
"Two years ago, your company started marketing reverse mortgages to elderly homeowners. Your salesmen promised lifetime payments, but that wasn't true, was it? In fact, the first of those notes will fall due in the new year, allowing your company to repossess the homes."
"Those contracts are perfectly legal,” Beckham said, swallowing.
"Of course they are. It's just business, I understand that. You're entirely within your rights to seize those properties and evict the owners, and there's nothing anyone can do about it. Legally. That's why we're having this conversation."
"I—don't understand."
"Sure you do, Peter. You're a smart businessman and I'm counting on your intelligence. For example, why would I want the password?"
"Because—one of your relatives has a reverse mortgage? Look, if that's all it is, I'll cancel it! I can—"
"Not good enough. If you only change one, it'll be obvious that pressure was brought and who brought it. No, you're going to cancel them all. Every last one of them."
"Even if I wanted to, I can't do that. We sold those contracts to a—"
The short punch caught him flush on the mouth, snapping his head back against the headboard.
"Lie to me again, Pete, and it'll be the last lie you ever tell,” Sean hissed. “Your company plans to develop those properties. You've already got financing lined up. That's why simply canceling them won't do. Your company computers are going to be hit by a virus that will find and destroy those records everywhere they've gone. During the disruption, you're going to announce a change of policy, and cancel all reverse mortgages. And in return for this gesture of goodwill, a national labor union will transfer all of its acquisition business to your office."
"A labor union,” Beckham echoed through bloodied lips. “I see."
"Yes, I believe you do. What's the word?"
Beckham hesitated. “Dexter,” he mumbled at last. “The password is Dexter."
"Smart move, Mr. Beckham,” Sean said, rising, staring down at the rumpled realtor. “You won't regret this. Unless, of course, you're thinking ‘Thank God for hard copies.’ That once I'm gone, you can just call the police, report my visit, and then go ahead with the evictions. Is that what you're thinking?"
Beckham didn't answer. Which was answer enough.
"I thought you might be. But that would be a huge mistake, Mr. Beckham. Because I'm your last chance. You live in this town, you do business here. I had no trouble finding you and I'm only the Ghost of Christmas Past. The next guy who comes for you won't be a ghost. He'll turn you into one. Goodbye, Mr. Beckham."
"Wait! I gave you the wrong word! It's not Dexter, it's Rosebud."
"Yes, it is. See? I knew I could count on your intelligence. Go back to sleep, Mr. Beckham. And have a merry Christmas."
* * * *
Awake at first light, Sean dressed in running togs and tiptoed down the hall to Gia's room. Listened outside her door a moment. Thought about tapping, decided against it.
Downstairs, bodies were scattered about like a battlefield. Snoring card players dozed in recliner chairs or huddled in sleeping bags in the ember glow of the fireplace. Iron Mike was curled up on the couch, snoring softly, bare shins sticking out beyond the blanket. Sean stared down at him for a moment. Mike's e
yes blinked open.
He mumbled something, then coughed. “Everything okay?"
Sean nodded. “Fine. I'm going for a run. Wanna come?” But his brother was already asleep.
New snow had fallen overnight and the morning was utterly silent, no traffic, no pedestrians. Vagrant flakes drifted on the hint of a winter breeze. Sean walked half a block, stretching out, then kicked into a lope, jogging through a glistening, swirling world of white.
A dark sedan rumbled up behind him. He moved over to let it pass but it gunned ahead instead, cutting him off. Vanston leapt out in front of him, looking ragged and unshaven, a weapon at his side.
"Hold it right there,” he barked. “Lean against the car, O'Donnell, and spread ‘em. You're under arrest.” Gia Sirico was out of the car now, too, circling behind his back.
"What is this?” Sean asked.
"Did you really think you'd get away with it? I played cards with those union goons for eight hours straight, watched ‘em kill a fifth of scotch apiece, get so blasted they could barely see their cards. But not a slip, not a sideways glance, not a sniff of anything illegal. I could have been playing with Quakers."
"How much did they clip you for?” Sean asked.
"That's not the point! With all the hustles your brother's got going, strong-arm, extortion, racketeering, no way he'd go that long without mentioning something. Unless he was warned. Which cancels our deal, jerk-off. You're busted."
"For embezzlement?” Sean asked. “Actually, that's been cleared up. Our auditing division called first thing this morning. They found the problem and the missing money last night. Turned out to be a computer glitch after all. They notified your office. Have you checked your messages?"
"I told you to lean against the car."
"Screw yourself, Vanston. I cooperated with you to save myself and the bank embarrassment. But I'm not jammed up anymore. And I'm done playing. This game's over."
"I won't tell you again,” Vanston snarled, raising his weapon.
"Put it away, Carl,” Sirico said, snapping her cell phone closed. “I just checked my messages. He's right. He's off the hook."
"Damn it, he knew it all along. He was just jerking us around!"
"If so, he made a righteous job of it. Now put that piece away. Go home to your family. I'll finish up here."
EQMM, January 2007 Page 17
