Once a Crooked Man

by David McCallum

  “There a problem?” Carter sensed the possibility of trouble.

  Max lowered his voice. “I’m going down there to tell them they have to find someone new to do their pickups and deliveries. The Bruschetti boys want out.”

  This was the last thing Carter expected Max to say. But was it necessarily good news? Why the sudden change in their operation?

  The waiter set down his corned beef sandwich.

  Max asked for coffee and continued quietly, “I had a meeting with Sal and Enzo this morning. We made the decision to go one hundred percent legit.”

  For a moment Carter was at a loss for words. Then he asked, “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  Max smiled. “Enzo said you’d be in favor of the change. He feels you would have been a happier man if you had never met us.”

  “He doesn’t still say that does he?”

  “He thinks you got a conscience,” said Max. “Always have. Always will.”

  “And that makes me someone who could never fully be trusted. Is that it?”

  “It makes you someone who has always wanted out. That carries its own baggage.”

  The waiter arrived with a mug of coffee for Max and refilled Carter’s.

  “In my experience,” said Carter, “quitting is not that easy. Things can jump up and bite you when you least expect it no matter how prepared you think you are.”

  “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind,” said Max.

  Carter took a bite of his sandwich and chewed for a moment. “I take it you’ll want me to get in touch with the Channel Islands?”

  “There’s no need for Julian to know,” replied Max. “Not yet.”

  “What about the others? What about London?”

  “Not a problem,” answered Max. “We will take care of them. We’re still working out the details.”

  “I’ve always wanted to ask if you know that Villiers steals from you.”

  Max smiled. “I wouldn’t call it stealing. Skimming perhaps. The amounts are nominal.”

  “How much do you suppose he’s taken over the years?”

  “Enzo has a pretty accurate figure and he simply puts it down to the cost of doing business. For that matter, in our line of work everybody has sticky fingers. How do we know your friend Julian doesn’t take a little more than we agreed?”

  Carter laughed aloud. “Julian has always been a bit weird but he’d never do that.”

  “You sure?” asked Max.

  “Absolutely,” said Carter with finality.

  Max paused for a moment. “Why have you never brought this up until now? And what do you mean Julian is weird?”

  “Flaky,” replied Carter. “A little odd.”

  “Flaky? What the fuck is ‘flaky’?”

  “Well, last year when I saw him in London, I had the impression that he was more relaxed. Less uptight. He was with another ‘guy,’ if you know what I mean.” Carter emptied his water glass. “I take it you’ll be closing down Mazaras.”

  The waiter materialized to see if they wanted to order anything else. Both shook their heads. Tearing off the check, he tucked it under the ketchup. Max retrieved it. “Why would I close the club?” he asked.

  “I just feel that you need to be aware the ‘club,’ as you call it, is a direct access to your whole organization. If you’ve made up your mind to close all the loopholes you sure can’t leave that one open. We both know what goes on there. People talk. If the city ever decided to run an investigation…”

  “Thanks for the lecture,” said Max, cutting him off. “So what else do you need to know?”

  “Nothing,” said Carter with a shrug. “I need to know nothing. You and your brothers are comparative strangers to me. All the work I do for you was set up by correspondence a long time ago. I simply follow orders and invest your money. Statements are sent out on a regular basis according to those same written instructions. I keep the books and file the taxes on time. The only difference now will be that the money coming from certain accounts has ceased. I will simply assume they’ve become inactive. Happens all the time.” He leaned across the table. “I don’t need to know anything because I don’t have to change a goddam thing.”

  Max got to his feet.

  Carter asked, “Why did you decide to do all this now?”

  “Lots of reasons.”

  “Not wasting any time are you?”

  “I see this as a surgical operation,” replied Max. “I make the incision. Work as fast as possible to minimize the pain. Hopefully there won’t be too much bleeding.”

  Carter watched Max as he stood in line to pay the check, unable to grasp what had just happened or how he felt about it. On the one hand, he was hugely relieved that the Bruschettis were going 100 percent legit, but on the other, he had an irritating feeling that everything could start to unravel. As he had just warned Max, change often produced unanticipated consequences.

  13

  Out on the sidewalk Max pondered the disturbing fact that Carter Allinson had apparently eliminated every tie to the Bruschetti family. If there ever was an investigation of the Bruschettis and he became involved, the bastard could easily turn state’s evidence and cop a plea. Max glanced at his watch. It was only one fifteen.

  At the Fiery Dragon Sal had decided it was necessary to kill Santiago and Villiers in London. From what Max had just heard it might be wise to get rid of Carter, his pal Julian and maybe a gay boyfriend. And what about Carter’s wife? How much did the lovely Fiona know?

  Could be a fucking massacre.

  14

  In a modest hotel room in West London chosen for its obscurity, Rocco Martinelli finished his daily exercise routine, showered, toweled himself off and dressed casually in dark clothes. With the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, he slipped down the stairs and out onto Westbourne Grove. The evening sky was cloudy, but the breeze was warm. In five minutes he entered Paddington mainline station, pushing his way through the throng of commuters.

  Whenever a dead body is found in odd circumstances, the police assume foul play. Rocco thoroughly enjoyed creating evidence that would change that assumption to accidental death or suicide. When the medical examiner pronounced that his victim had died from natural causes Rocco was thrilled. The latest challenge of disposing of Percy Santiago and the Colonel was giving him much pleasure.

  Both of his targets knew him well, so the approach would be easy. But what then? How to dispose of the Colonel came to him while he was watching the movie on the flight from New York. Santiago’s demise proved to be a tougher proposition. It wasn’t until Rocco was making the long walk from the plane to the luggage hall at Heathrow that the means of Santiago’s death came to mind. The idea was sparked by a poster on the wall of lurid London nightlife, and a guidebook bought at a newsstand had given Rocco the information he needed.

  Now the plan was well developed in his mind.

  A Circle Line train took him to St. Pancras where he connected to the Northern Line and the ride out to Belsize Park. As he emerged from the depths he bought a copy of USA Today.

  A short walk brought him to the southern fringes of Hampstead Heath, where the guidebook suggested he could find receptive male companionship. Rocco selected a park bench at the edge of a small copse, sat down and opened the paper as if to read it.

  In the evening light there was little activity. Only when dusk truly fell did the mating begin. Roaming males circled, glanced, paired up. Rocco strolled about and observed the ritual. If the couples headed for the shadows beneath the trees, he went back to his bench. If they left the park, he followed and made a note of exactly where they went.

  Eventually he had the addresses of three male prostitutes. One was a young boy with streaky blond tints in his hair who lived in a basement close to the park. He wore shorts and a sports shirt. His clean appearance made him stand out from the others and apparently brought him the most business. As the first light of dawn flecked the sky Rocco took a taxi back to Paddington and enjoyed a deep
sleep.

  The next night he was gratified to see that his diligence had not been in vain. The young man again walked the paths. Now Rocco timed how long his flat was left empty between tricks and found that it was never less than twelve minutes.

  A huge oak tree directly across the road from the boy’s dwelling gave Rocco good cover. His quarry arrived with a tall man with a limp a little before midnight. Neither of them spoke a word. The metal gate squeaked open and the two disappeared below street level. The front door opened and closed. In thirteen minutes, the man came up the steps and hurried away as fast as his lame leg would allow.

  Ten minutes went by. Rocco began to wonder if he’d left it too late. Perhaps the limp had been the last customer and the boy had packed it in for the night. But the door opened and closed and he reappeared. Freshly combed hair glowed orange under the streetlamp as he left. As soon as he was out of sight, Rocco went across the road and down the steps. Uneven flagstones covered the ground. Three dustbins stood against the wall. The door to the flat was made of wood and had a Yale lock.

  To the right of the door was a casement window with a center latch. Rocco took out his pocketknife and eased it in through the gap in the old frame and pushed the hinged metal to one side. The window slid up silently and he was able to climb up over the sill.

  A heavy green blanket was tacked to the ceiling in place of curtains. Rocco closed the window and eased the covering aside to give himself some light.

  The room was a square box with a bed, a chair and a table. Two doors in the back wall stood open, one to a bathroom and the other to a closet. Makeshift shelves held books and a microwave. The place smelled of damp and sweat.

  As his whole plan depended on there being a telephone in the room, Rocco looked around to find one. Mercifully there was a portable on the floor by the bed. Rocco picked it up and dialed the code to retrieve the number. Tearing out a page from one of the paperbacks, he took out a pen, wrote the numbers down and replaced the phone exactly where he had found it.

  A quick check of the room assured him it was unchanged. Releasing the blanket, he let himself out, closed the window and slid back the catch before climbing the stairs.

  The next day a hardware store provided him with a flashlight, a coil of galvanized wire, a small black tool bag, a pair of cutters, a screwdriver and a lock that was identical to the one in the basement door. In Haberdashery at Marks & Spencer, an assistant helped him to pick out a pair of black socks and leather gloves. In Cosmetics, a vivid red lipstick and a tube of brown mascara were added to the assortment. In Ladies Underwear, a black garter belt, queen-size stockings and a pair of red panties completed his purchases. Rocco paid for everything with cash.

  The hotel provided stationery for its guests. Rocco sat at the small desk by the window and took out an envelope and a sheet of notepaper. Folding the blank paper, he slid it into the envelope. On the outside he wrote: Percy Santiago. The glue tasted of peppermint as he licked the flap. The next part of his plan called for him to get in touch with Continental Delivery Motor Services.

  When the receptionist answered his call he said, “Mister Santiago, please.”

  There was a click and almost immediately a cheerful voice said, “Percy here. Who’s that?”

  “It’s the messenger boy from the States.” Rocco leaned back. “I’ve some interesting news from the boss in New York. I need to share it with you. I’m staying at a friend’s flat here in town and wondered if you could meet me there.”

  “Nice to hear your voice. When do you want to meet?” Santiago asked.

  “Tonight? Say eight thirty?”

  “Sure. Where?”

  “At the entrance to Belsize Park underground station at eight fifteen. Okay?”

  “Sure. No problem is there?”

  “No. Just a few changes. I have a list for you,” said Rocco, and before he got any more questions he hung up. Right away he telephoned the Dorchester Hotel and asked to be put through to the message desk.

  “Hi! My name is Herbie Smith and I will be checking in later. I just wanted to make sure that if anyone calls, you’ll take a message for me?”

  “What did you say the name was, sir?”

  “Smith, Herbert.”

  “If anyone calls we’ll be sure to take a message, Mister Smith.”

  “Thank you.”

  Rocco pulled out the torn page from the paperback and dialed the numbers. A young voice answered. “Yes?”

  “This is a bit embarrassing,” said Rocco quietly. “I need to make sure I’m talking to the right person.”

  “That’s okay. What is this about?” He sounded Cockney, cautious but friendly.

  “I’m over here from Chicago and I’m looking for some … some … well, some companionship this evening. A friend of mine gave me this phone number but didn’t give me a name. He said he was very satisfied with the … service provided when he was here.”

  “What did your friend tell you about me?”

  “He said you were about five eight, one hundred forty pounds. You have streaky blond hair.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah.” Rocco smiled. “You have a great ass.”

  The boy chuckled. “That’s me all right.”

  “Would you be free this evening?” Rocco closed his eyes and waited.

  There was a slight pause. “Yes” came the reply.

  Rocco opened them. “How much?” he asked.

  “Five hundred quid. Or seven hundred fifty dollars or seven hundred euros. Cash. Any of those is okay with me.”

  Rocco paused for a moment. “I take it that much is for all night.”

  “Absolutely. Or until your prick falls off. Whichever comes first.” The boy laughed crudely at his own witticism.

  “Great,” said Rocco. “I look forward to meeting you. My name is Herbie Smith. I’m at the Dorchester. Come around eight and we’ll have some dinner.”

  “The Dorchester?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool. I’ll be there.”

  At 6:30 P.M. Rocco was behind the same convenient oak tree across the road from the basement flat. A pair of surgical gloves covered his hands and the leather gloves hid these. Everything else he had bought was in the bag by his side.

  The boy appeared at just after seven and headed up the hill in the direction of the station. Wearing a Windbreaker over a white shirt and khaki pants, he whistled as he walked. Rocco remained where he was for five minutes before he crossed the road. Once he was down the steps, the window catch flicked back easily and he climbed in.

  He now worked with swift precision. Taking the screwdriver, he removed the lock from the door, loosened the restraining screws and rotated the cylinder until it dropped out. He placed this one into the plastic bag and took out the cylinder from the new lock. Once this was installed, he replaced the whole mechanism on the door. The new key turned smoothly. Pulling it back out, he put this key in the left pocket of his coat. In the right he stuffed one of the stockings.

  He straightened the bed, tidied up the books and closed the bathroom and closet doors. Satisfied that the room looked normal, he placed the envelope in the center of the bed with Percy’s name uppermost and pushed the bag out of sight under the bed. Letting himself out, he ran up the stairs and over to the subway station.

  Santiago was already there waiting. A short man with a thick head of dark hair who always wore flashy suits and sported a flower in his buttonhole. A tie was optional but the gold chains and bracelets were not. Unlike the Bruschettis, he had adopted a highly ostentatious lifestyle. His photograph appeared frequently in the newspapers at horse races or on his yacht or at antique car rallies. His art collection was famous. He gave the overall impression that he was a man who had once been poor but through entrepreneurial skill had managed to become wildly rich and now was determined to enjoy it to the fullest.

  Not all his wealth, however, was legally derived. Percy Santiago was a scrupulously careful and successful owner of severa
l car dealerships that collected and delivered new and stolen cars all over the continent of Europe. Colonel Villiers had met him while buying his classic Jaguar. The two had become close friends and it wasn’t long before the Colonel was able to make use of Santiago’s network to sequester large sums of cash until the propitious moment arose to deliver it to Julian in the Channel Islands.

  The moment Santiago saw Rocco he gave him a hug and kissed him on both cheeks.

  “The messenger boy from New York! What a pleasant surprise! Good to see you my friend. How long have you been over here? My God! You are looking so very fit. Are you still running all those miles around the streets of New York? Which way do we go? Up or down? Should we take a taxi?”

  “Up,” said Rocco. “We’re just going around the corner. It’s not far.”

  Santiago spoke loudly and gesticulated with his hands. “I want you to know that I appreciate what you do for me,” he said with feeling. “You and Max, the Colonel too, and so if there is anything I can do for any of you, be sure to let me know. Anything you want.”

  “Thanks,” said Rocco. “You’re not making this easy for me.”

  “Try me,” said Santiago with a smile. “I won’t bite.”

  “Why don’t we wait until we’re inside the flat?”

  “Why? Who’s going to hear you besides me?”

  Rocco gave a nod and said abruptly, “Max has a health problem.”

  Santiago stopped in his tracks. “You’re not serious. No, I didn’t know.”

  Rocco continued walking. “The brothers got together and decided it was time for a few changes. They felt it was time to take the pressure off.”

  “And?” Santiago had to run slightly to catch up.

  “They’re gonna get out of the business.”

  Santiago went silent. The two men turned onto Pond Street.

  “Does the Colonel know about all this?”

  “I’m meeting with him later,” continued Rocco as they neared the basement flat. “But I’d like you to keep this conversation to yourself until he calls you. Max has a plan to offer you guys severance with an additional payment later. He gave me a list to give you of all the changes we’re making.”