Callahan's Con

by Spider Robinson

  “Shit,” he said, and I didn’t disagree.

  There was no sidewalk. There wasn’t even any shoulder. What lay on this side of the fence was about eight inches of curb, and then the lane we were stopped in. We could balance on that spit of curb, pressed up against the fence, and peer through a hole if we could find or make one—but we were going to be pretty conspicuous doing it. The car wasn’t tall enough to provide effective visual cover from oncoming traffic, and the curb was too narrow to squat, crouch, or kneel. In the greater Miami area (and I’d hate to see the lesser), if you stand around, openly committing felonies in plain sight in the middle of a heavily traveled road for too many hours in a row, the theoretical possibility arises that you might just be seen by a cop, on his way off-duty perhaps.

  I glanced at the traffic fuming past us. Nearly every driver that went by gave me the finger.

  “Got it,” Bill said. He studied his sideview mirror carefully, and when a hole in the traffic came along, he was out the door and in front of the car in a jiffy. I squeezed out my side and joined him.

  His plan was simple and elegant. We sat on that silly curb, with our backs against the wall. The car now shielded us very effectively from the view of traffic coming along our way, and motorists going in the other direction would see only two hapless chumps waiting for the tow truck. If we could find or make a hole in the wall at the right height, either of us could put an eye or an ear to it simply by turning to speak to the other. The only downside was the constant nagging awareness that it was only a matter of time before some drunk decided our flashers were Christmas lights and plowed into the back of our car; in that case we would either stand up very quickly and carefully or, more likely, lose our legs.

  Still, we felt pretty proud of ourselves. We were within pistol-shot of a Mafia caporegime, absolutely unsuspected, and our biggest immediate worry was a hypothetical drunk driver. For parrot-heads without a plan, we weren’t doing too shabby. Bill flashed me his pirate’s grin and adjusted himself under his sarong for more comfortable sitting. “Cool,” he said.

  I grinned back at him and nodded. “Now how do we make a small hole in this fence?”

  “Tire iron,” Bill suggested.

  I shook my head. “Rental. Useless, I saw it. The only thing in the world you can do with it is loosen or tighten nuts that happen to be the right size.”

  “Screwdriver.”

  “Got one?”

  “Uh…break off the gearshift lever; use it like an awl.”

  “How do we make our getaway?”

  “The turn signal, then.”

  I was losing my good cheer. Something infinitely more important than a man monster or a Mafia kingpin was on the other side of that fucking fence: Erin. To be so near her, and screwed by the want of a screwdriver, was—

  —screwed? I’m a bartender. I keep a corkscrew on my key ring.

  I got it out, picked a spot, braced it with my left hand, and put my shoulder into it. In well under a minute it was clear I was wasting my time, but I kept trying.

  “Jake, Jake, wait—listen!” said Bill.

  I did hear something, which might have been voices raised in anger. Bill and I looked at each other and pressed our ears to the wall, hoping to pick up something by conduction. His face was no more than two feet from mine, so close I was able to notice he’d plucked his nostrils lately. “Hear that?” he whispered.

  “What?” I whispered back, and pressed my ear even harder against the wall, and prayed to a God I didn’t believe in to please send a beam out of the sky and punch a hole through this miserable stinking sonofabitching wall—

  WHANG! My head exploded, and I fell over into the road, saw Bill land beside me.

  I couldn’t seem to work out what had happened. Then I glanced up at the wall and it was self-evident.

  Picture Double Bill and me pressed up against that wall. Our two heads are so close together there’s just enough room between them for a third man’s head. If one were there, and he were looking straight at you, the bridge of his nose would be at the exact spot where the bullet came through the wall.

  Tony solved the problem of finding the meet in typical Alexandrian fashion. He made one attempt at finding it himself and got it wrong—748317 851st Way NE—but the homeowner there was more than happy to leave a hot dinner on the table, shush his crying children, get behind the wheel of his own Corolla and personally lead Tony and Ida to the right address. No problem at all. Once they were there and the guide had been dismissed, Charlie got out, slung little Ida Alice over one shoulder, and headed for the door. But there was a small kerfluffle over admission.

  “No kids,” said the guy on the door, a stocky dour-looking thug in a black long-sleeve shirt, black slacks, and black loafers.

  “This ain’t no kid,” Tony said. “This here is the deal.”

  “No kids,” the man in black repeated. “Mr. Ponte hates kids.”

  Tony started to get pissed. “This is ten million bucks walkin’—happens to be short and warm; that don’t make it a kid.”

  The door guy knew as well as Tony that Tony could tear him in half any time he felt like it. But he also knew there were worse fates than being torn in half; he stood his ground, kept one hand under his shirt, and looked adamant.

  Tony hated to start a meet by murdering the door guy, but he couldn’t see an alternative.

  “Now I understand why the Roman Empire fell,” Ida said.

  The thug blinked down at her.

  “Listen to me, you road-company butler,” she went on, “Mr. Pontevecchio left his extremely comfortable home and came to this godforsaken rabbit warren to discuss a matter involving ten million dollars. I’m not going to bother asking you your name, because when he asks us who wasted his time and lost him that opportunity, I’ll only need to say the guinea Johnny Cash. Vaf fanculo. Let’s go, Antonio.”

  The thug opened his mouth to reply—

  “Let ’em in, Vinnie,” said a voice from inside the house.

  Vinnie closed his mouth, stepped back, and they went inside.

  There was another goon to the left, in front of the hallway that led off to the bedrooms, also with a hand near his waist, but Tony paid no attention to him. He knew there would be at least one more guy somewhere, with his gun already out, but didn’t bother looking for him.

  Charlie Ponte stood in the mini-living-room, back to his guests, looking out a closed sliding glass door at the yardlet behind the house. He was balder than Tony remembered, but didn’t look as if he’d gained a pound; in fact, he looked surprisingly fit for a man of his years and position. His green silk shirt with pearl buttons would have won a respectful nod from Bert the Shirt; his grey beltless slacks looked as if he had only moments ago taken them out of the dry cleaner’s plastic and put them on; the species of lizard from which his boots were made was no longer endangered, because there were the last two of them, right there. Even from behind, he looked dangerous, even to Tony Donuts Junior. Tony set the kid down on her feet and put a proprietary hand on her shoulder. “Yo, Chollie,” he said. “Thanks fa seein’ me.”

  Charlie turned around like a gun turret. From the front, he radiated menace the way some women radiate sex appeal. Part of it was that you didn’t often see a face that ugly that was so absolutely confident you weren’t going to laugh at it. Another part was the eyes, doll’s eyes, unblinking reptile eyes without a trace of mercy or pity. And some of it was simple knowledge of the awesome invisible power he wielded, as a senior executive of an organization that killed presidents when it felt like it. Strong men had died for annoying him. “Tony,” he said. “Ten mil fa what?”

  Tony relaxed slightly. For Charlie that was a respectful welcome. “I got somethin’ you’re gonna like.”

  “Yeah?”

  Tony groped for a way to express it. “I got somethin’ the old men are gonna want more than money.”

  Charlie did not snort, snicker, smirk, or grimace. He had heard of humor, but didn’t see the poi
nt. The only thing he said, and that with absolute lack of expression, was, “Uh-huh.”

  “No shit, Charlie. I—”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen!”

  Both men looked down.

  Ida was glaring up at Tony Donuts. “Have you no social graces at all, Mr. Donnazzio?”

  “S’cuse me,” Tony heard himself say. “Chollie, this is Ida. Ida, Chollie.”

  Charlie regarded her dubiously. “I hate kids.”

  “I hate bald ugly gangsters with no manners, so we’re even.”

  Charlie looked at Tony. “What the fuck izzis?”

  Tony spread his hands. “An old lady.”

  Charlie stared. “Yeah?”

  “An old lady I’m gonna give ten mil to.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Once you give itta me. This is why I’m here.”

  “Uh huh.” Charlie looked down at Ida, then back up to Tony. “I give you ten huge. Then what? You come back the next day with twelve five? The next day with fifteen? The day after that with twenty?”

  Tony shook his big head. “I come back in a few hours with somethin’ way better.”

  “Better than ten mil.”

  “Somethin’ that, when you bring it to the old men, and they hear they paid only ten huge for it, they’re gonna say, Chollie, this is the bargain a the century.”

  Charlie studied him and frowned. “Not a atom bomb.”

  Tony blinked. “Nah.”

  “Good, we got them. Okay, what?”

  Tony couldn’t keep himself from smiling. He dropped a massive hand back onto Ida’s shoulder and answered, “Ute.”

  Charlie Ponte studied him poker-faced for more than fifteen seconds. He knew perfectly well that Tony Donuts Junior did not make jokes, any more than he did himself, and he could see that Tony was not under the influence of any drug Charlie had ever sold, or foaming at the mouth, or addressing people who were not present.

  Then he took an equally long silent look at Ida. He had bought and sold thousands of females, most of whom had tried to lie about their age. Her face and body were those of a seven-year-old, no question. But everything else about her—behavior, carriage, diction, vocabulary, stance, above all those striking eyes looking fearlessly into his—said that she was much more than seven years old. He found it disturbing.

  He looked back to Tony. “Tell me about it.”

  Tony smiled again. “Two days ago I seen her the first time. She was in her twenties. Since then, every time I see her, she’s younger. Today I catch up to her and find out the story. See, the guy—”

  Charlie held up a hand. “You tell the story,” he said to the little girl. “What’s ya name again?”

  “Ida Alice Shourds.”

  Charlie frowned. “Where do I know that name?”

  “You’re clearly better educated and more widely read in Florida history than Mr. Donnazzio. You have, I take it, studied the life of Henry Morrison Flagler?”

  “Sure. Hero a mine, guy stole Florida.”

  “Well put. I was his second wife.”

  Charlie’s poker face spread to his entire upper body.

  “No shit, Chollie,” Tony put in. “She looks like a little kid, but she’s over a hunnert years old, this Ida. Her old man found the Fountain a Ute. He ain’t dead, this Fagola. On paper he’s dead—really he’s out there livin’ off the books, havin’ a ball. He screwed Ida here, had ’em put her inna hatch and threw away the key, only she got sprung, so naturally she wantsa screw him back. See? So you give me the ten mil like I said, an’ I give it to her, an’ she takes me ta this Fountain, an then I tell you where it is, an’ you tell the Old Men.” It had been a long time since Tony had spoken so many words in a row, and he found it tiring thinking of them all. But he knew he needed a big finish, here, and he’d been working on it since he left Key West. “Chollie, lissena me. How’d ya like ta be the guy that can make the Old Men young?”

  It was absolutely impossible to guess what was going through Charlie Ponte’s head. He might as well have been a statue. All three of his goons became fractionally more alert, and made sure their silencers were affixed. When Mr. Ponte got like this, you had to shoot guys sometimes.

  “Why do you come back?” he asked finally.

  “Huh?”

  “I give you ten mil. You give it to the kid, she brings ya ta the Fountain a Ute. Now you got ten huge in your hand and eternal life. Why do I ever see you again?”

  Tony grimaced. “Charlie, come on,” he said, and pointed to himself with both hands. “Looka me. Where the fuck am I gonna hide? That Russian spaceship Mirror?”

  “This Flagler’s hidin’ pretty good, what you’re tellin’ me.”

  “Cause nobody’s lookin’ for him. After all this shakes out, I might go look him up.”

  Charlie shook his head. “What’s your end a this? You find out where the Fountain is, I gotta pay you another ten huge to find out, maybe?”

  Tony shook his head. “Nah. It’s my gift ta you an’ the Old Men.”

  “So what’s in it fa—? Ah.”

  “I wanna get made, Chollie. I get a button, it makes up for all the shit happened to my old man. Hey, tell me I don’t deserve it. I’m givin each one a the old men a teenager’s balls again. That’s gotta be worth a button.”

  Charlie thought some more. “Not for nothin’, Tony, but what do I need you for?”

  “Huh?”

  “Ida, you care who hands ya this ten mil?”

  “Not in the least,” she said.

  Charlie looked at Tony and raised an eyebrow. “See?”

  Tony frowned. “Chollie,” he said, “you make me real sad, talkin this shit.” His voice began to rise in volume and lower in pitch. “I come to ya like a man, wit respect, I give ya somethin better than any guy ever worked for ya in ya mizzable life, somethin the Old Men’ll kiss your ass for, and ya wanna screw me?” He was shouting by now. “Me?”

  “Who else is here?”

  “God damn it,” Tony said. “This ain’t right, an you know it, Chollie. This is bullshit.”

  “You don’t know what I know,” Charlie Ponte said, and the way he said it made even Tony Donuts in a rage take notice.

  “Okay, fine,” Tony said. “Play it like that. Tell Vinnie behind me ta shoot me.”

  Charlie said nothing.

  Tony turned around to face Vinnie. Vinnie’s pistol was out, but pointed at the ceiling. “If you shoot me with that,” Tony told him, “I won’t kill you.”

  “You won’t?” Vinnie couldn’t stop himself from asking.

  “Nah.” Tony shook his head. “I’ll nail both your feet ta the floor. Then I’ll go kill your wife, your kids, your parents, an your girlfriend.”

  The blood drained from Vinnie’s face.

  “Shoot him, Vinnie,” Charlie Ponte said.

  Vinnie closed his eyes, took a deep breath, opened them again, took his stance and fired. The shot sounded like a smoker spitting out a tobacco flake.

  The round missed Tony by five inches. It drilled a fairly neat hole through the glass door, which failed to explode into a million shards because it had not been made by a prop department, and then another hole through the backyard fence.

  “Vinnie,” Charlie said.

  Vinnie sighed. “Sorry, Boss,” he said. “I really like my mom.” He put the barrel of his gun in his mouth. But before he could pull the trigger, his eyes rolled up in his head and he fainted.

  Tony, Charlie, and one of the other goons all said “Whoa!” at once. The second goon said, “Fuck me runnin’.” Ida said nothing. Then there was a pause of five seconds, silent except for the sounds of Vinnie falling down, before Tony Donuts said, “Ya see? People start breakin bad, who knows what’s gonna happen? Why don’t we just do the right thing, here? Have we got a deal, or not?”

  “Look at it from where I’m sittin’ a minute,” said Charlie. “You want ten huge. I say why. You say I got the Fountain a Ute. I say how do I know that? You say, look at this kid, I sw
ear she was older yesterday. You see my problem here, Tony? Due respect, how do I know your head isn’t up your ass? No offense.”

  Tony snorted and regained his grip on Ida’s shoulder. “You talked with this bitch. Look at her. You think she’s a kid?”

  Charlie considered this. Ida looked him square in the eye.

  “Come on, you think a midget actor is gonna be that cool after somebody gets shot next to her?”

  Charlie shook his head like a horse shaking off flies. “I gotta have more.”

  “Fine,” said Ida. She bent and fiddled with her socks, making sure the cuffs around her ankles didn’t touch her skin; they must chafe. Then she turned to the goon she could see and said, loudly and clearly, “I’m going to take a bottle of water from my fanny pack.” She moved with slow deliberation, took the bottle out with a thumb and two fingers.

  Tony smiled broadly. “There you go. Now we’ll get this show on the road. Watch her close, Chollie. You, too, pal.”

  She held up the bottle and sloshed it, showing Charlie the inch or so of water it had left in it. “Point that thing away from me. You’re going to flinch in a second,” she said to the goon, and waited until he complied.

  “Save a little taste for Chollie,” Tony suggested.

  “No,” Ida said. Then she drank the bottle dry.

  Tony had to give it up for Charlie—he kept his poker face. He must have seen some amazing shit in his life. But the capo’s swarthy complexion did lighten by a half shade.

  “Fuck me on a pogo stick,” said the visible goon, and the one who was supposed to be hidden in the dining room said, “Basta.”