Line of Succession td-73

by Warren Murphy

  There was a time when being an Eastie gang member meant hanging around street corners, hustling protection money from people walking through the neighborhood, and carrying a switch blade or, at best, a zip gun. Antonio Serrano had seen an old movie on TV once, which showed how it had been. It made him laugh. Why, compared to those dinks, he was the modern man and they were Neanderthals. He carried a chrome-plated Colt Python revolver. When he needed more muscle, he dug a semiautomatic Uzi machine pistol out from under the seat cushions of his Caddy.

  Still, he wasn't as evolved as he'd like to think. Standing on street corners extorting protection money was one Eastie tradition that Antonio would not allow to die.

  Antonio lounged at the corner of Trenton and Marion streets, picking at his orange mesh shirt, a silver crucifix hanging from one ear. He was unhappy. Only old ladies passed him on the street, carrying groceries from Tony's Spa. Old ladies never carried much money and they were too much trouble to rob. Besides, most of them knew him by sight.

  He gave some thought to sticking up Tony's Spa, just for kicks, but Tony had been robbed so many times that he was talking about moving to the North Shore, away from innercity crime. Antonio decided it wasn't worth whatever was in the till to risk losing the only convenience store in the neighborhood and went back to picking at his shirt. For some reason, he felt itchy tonight.

  A little black foreign car slid around the corner in Antonio's direction, moving slowly.

  Antonio watched it curiously, wondering if he was about to be hit. People were always looking to take his action, small as it was in the billion-dollar drug trade. But the car was too wimpy. No self-respecting wise guy would drive a little foreign jobbie like that. Besides, it had Maine license plates. As far as Antonio knew, there was no such thing as the Mafia up in Maine. Wherever that was. He had heard it was someplace north. Or was he thinking of Canada?

  The car rolled to a stop down the street and Antonio reached down the front of his jeans, where he kept his Colt. He thought it was macho to wear it there. Also the barrel bulged up his crotch something fierce. The chicks really dug that.

  The man stepping out of the car had the weirdest eyes Antonio had ever seen. They were blue. Like neon. They fixed on Antonio like he was some kind of bug. The man wore casual clothes.

  Antonio pulled out his weapon. The blond man did not flinch or run, or do any of the usual things people did when they stared down the barrel of Antonio's gun. In fact, the man acted as if Antonio was holding a water pistol on him.

  "I'll bet that gun is hot," the man said in a quiet, reasonable voice.

  "Hey, I paid good money for this piece," Antonio said. "I don't have to steal. I make a grand a week."

  "I didn't mean stolen," the man said, moving toward him. "I meant hot. As in red-hot."

  Antonio wrinkled his forehead. "Get real, man," he said. But then the grip felt warm, the way a coffee cup is warm when you first take it in your hands. It grew warmer, the way a coffee cup feels when it's full of piping-hot coffee and you forget to grab it by the handle.

  "Ouch!" howled Antonio Serrano. His prize pistol fell into the gutter.

  The blue-eyed man got to the gun before he did. He picked it up, broke open the cylinder, and emptied the chambers into his hands. Tucking the Colt under one armpit, he calmly twisted the tips off the bullets and shook out the gray gunpowder like a man using a salt shaker.

  "What the fuck is going on?" Antonio Serrano asked when the man offered the useless weapon back.

  "Don't be afraid to touch it," the man said. "It won't bite you."

  Antonio reached out tentatively. He touched the barrel. It felt cool, like metal is supposed to feel. He yanked the gun back, but without bullets it was useless. Still, it felt good in his hand.

  "What's your problem, pal?" Antonio demanded, pointing the Colt out of habit.

  "I knew if I cruised this neighborhood long enough I would find someone like you."

  "Congratulations. I don't give fucking autographs."

  "You run with a gang?"

  "I lead the gang," Antonio boasted. "The Eastie Goombahs. You musta heard of us. Even the cops are scared of us."

  "Even the cops," repeated the blue-eyed man. "Did I mention my name?"

  "Screw your name."

  "Tulip. Call me Tulip. I like the way you carry yourself."

  "Hey, keep that faggy stuff to yourself."

  "Don't be crude. I'd like to hire you."

  "I'm self-employed, jack."

  "So I gathered. A thousand dollars a week, isn't that what you said?"

  "Yeah. "

  "That would make fifty-two thousand dollars a year, assuming you don't take vacations."

  "I wouldn't know a fucking vacation if it sat on my face."

  "No doubt," said Tulip. "How would you like to make, say, twice your yearly income-one hundred thousand dollars-for a few days' work?"

  "Twice fifty-two thousand dollars is one hundred and four thousand dollars. You trying to cheat me? Or maybe you think because I never got past sixth grade, I'm stupid or something. "

  "No, I don't think you're stupid or something," said the man who called himself Tulip.

  "Because you don't pull down the bucks I do unless you can count. Counting's important. Once I had my multiplication fucking tables down, I was set for life. That was my education. I got the rest on the streets."

  "I want you to kill two men for me."

  Antonio looked interested. "Yeah, who?"

  "The Vice-President of the United States is one of them."

  "Pass. I heard the Iranians or somebody like that are already working on it. "

  "They failed. I have a suitcase full of money that they would have claimed had they succeeded."

  In spite of himself, Antonio Serrano was impressed. This guy was talking about dusting the Vice-President of the fucking United States. Antonio Serrano had never even left the state.

  "You serious, man?"

  "What do you think?" asked Tulip.

  "You mentioned another guy."

  "Governor Michael Princippi."

  "Isn't he running for President too?"

  "Yes, are you interested?"

  "I don't know, man. Drugs are my line. Breaking heads, too. I killed guys before, sure. But only over turf or bucks."

  "Work for me. You will make money. What is the difference between killing for territory or killing directly for money?"

  "I don't know. Killing for money doesn't have much of a purpose. I gotta have more. Yeah, I gotta have purpose." Tulip looked around.

  "This is your turf?"

  "Me and the Goombahs own it."

  "I doubt that," said Tulip.

  "Well, we don't own it exactly. We control it, though. Nobody comes here unless we let him."

  "I'm here," said Tulip, smiling thinly.

  "All I gotta do is whistle and the Goombahs'll be all over you like bugs on a barbecue."

  "I'll take your word for it. Why do you fight for this street?"

  Antonio Serrano thought. He shrugged. "For power, prestige, and . . . "

  "Money?"

  "That's what it all comes down to, sure. I'll give you that. "

  "Work for me and the money will be bigger and quicker."

  "Nah, that's like Mafia stuff, man. If I wanted to join the Mafia, I'd have done that a long time ago. Not me. No way. You think I'm going to work my ass off and turn over half my score to some old Italian guy? That's stupid. I'm not stupid. "

  "Try it. I will give you one hundred and four thousand dollars for the governor. If it works out, I'm prepared to offer double that amount for the Vice-President."

  "I don't know," Antonio Serrano said slowly.

  "You don't have to kill anyone yourself. You have men. Send them. Pay them whatever you wish out of the money I offer and keep the rest. "

  Antonio considered. Whenever he thought, his bushy eyebrows grew together into one long eyebrow. He scratched it absently.

  "I don't know. I d
on't think my guys can handle this kind of action by themselves. I might have to go with them. You know, to keep them on target. They're not smart like me."

  "It will be easy. The governor does not like guards. He has no Secret Service protection. What have you got to lose, my friend?"

  "How do I know you'll give me the money afterward?"

  "I have the money in my car. I will show it to you. Then we will go to a bus terminal and put it in a locker. We will mail the locker key to your home address immediately after."

  "Hey, then all I gotta do is wait for the mail. What do I need to kill anybody for?"

  "You will not do that."

  "Why not?" Antonio asked.

  "Because after you give me your address, I will know where you live," said Tulip.

  "I could move."

  "Not you. No one making your kind of money would live here because he liked it. This street is all you know. You were born here and you will die here. Besides, wherever you hid, I would find you." And to drive the point home, Tulip jammed his finger into the muzzle of Antonio's pointing pistol. The barrel split along its entire length.

  "You got something there," admitted Antonio Serrano, examining his ruined Colt.

  "It is a deal, then?"

  "The governor, sure I can do the governor. He probably doesn't even pack a piece."

  "Fine. Let me show you the money and we will go to the bus station. After that, you will have forty-eight hours to complete this job."

  "One other thing," said Antonio Serrano as they walked to Tulip's car.

  "Yes?"

  "The governor. After I kill him, is it okay with you if I lift his wallet too?"

  Chapter 15

  The Eastie Goombahs listened to their leader's unusual proposition. When he had finished explaining his plan to assassinate the governor of the state, they considered their role for all of five seconds, nearly twice their normal attention span.

  "No way!" said Carmine Musto, who saw himself as the next head Goombah, and decided that today was as good a day as any to take over. After all, he was nearly fifteen himself.

  "You other guys?" asked Antonio Serrano, surveying the semicircle of his followers. He stood in the middle of his living room. The Eastie Goombahs, all of thirteen strong, lounged on his genuine zebraskin furniture, passing a roach from hand to hand.

  "What's in it for us?" asked another.

  "Prestige," said Antonio Serrano.

  "What's that?"

  "It's the same as recognition, only different," someone told him.

  "Whacking the governor will make us big," said Antonio.

  "Will it make us rich?" asked Carmine, who breathed through his mouth because his nostrils were hypersensitized from snorting coke all day. His eyes had that too-bright sheen that makes an addict look alert.

  "Believe it."

  "How?"

  "Trust me. I got a plan. But we gotta pull this off first," promised Antonio cagily. He didn't want the others to know about the money that Tulip pussy had offered him.

  "Who's paying you for this?" asked Carmine.

  "Whatcha mean?" asked Antonio with an injured look.

  He avoided Carmine's beady eyes. The dickhead, he thought. He's getting too smart.

  "I mean," said Carmine coolly, "you ain't come up with this brainstorm yourself. Someone's paying you, right? How much?"

  "Yeah, how much?" the others chorused.

  "Fifty thousand," lied Antonio. "I was planning on splitting with you jerks."

  "Fifty!" snorted Carmine. "Shit, man, you been took good. Wise guys get six figures."

  "Okay, I got six figures," Antonio admitted, because being caught in a lie was normal, but looking stupid was dangerous. "One hundred thousand he's paying me."

  "Oh, wow," Carmine mocked. "One hundred thousand. Split thirteen ways that's maybe two month's pay for most of us-chump change. You want us to hit the frigging governor for chump change?"

  "Anybody who doesn't want a piece of this can walk. Right now," said Antonio hotly. "Go on, get outta my crib. "

  Carmine Musto got to his feet resolutely. "I'm booking. Who's with me?"

  A few feet shuffled aimlessly.

  "Come on," said Carmine. "Let's get with it."

  "The more guys walk," said Antonio, "the more money that's left for the rest of us."

  "Chump change." Carmine sneered.

  "What's the split?" asked a younger member.

  Antonio frowned. He was in a corner. If he came in too low, he'd end up doing a solo. But if he came in too high, he'd be taking big risks for chump change, just like Carmine said.

  What decided him was the wary looks on the faces of the Eastie Goombahs.

  "One hundred grand split equally," he said reluctantly.

  Carmine Musto spit on the tigerskin rug on his way out. "Catch you later, dickhead," he said.

  Most of the others followed him. Four were left, including himself. "Twenty-five grand apiece," said Antonio broadly, trying to make the best of a bad situation. It was a good thing he had kept his mouth shut about that extra four thousand-not to mention the governor's wallet.

  The plan, as Antonio had explained it to his followers, was simple. They'd drive over to the governor's house, which was on the other, side of the city, and bust in shooting. It would be easy. It was true the money was short, as far as this kind of work went, but it would be quick work and there would be more of it. The Eastie Goombahs were going to be famous.

  The first hitch in the plan revealed itself to Antonio Serrano when he led his men out onto the street. His green Caddy wasn't there.

  "Carmine," said Antonio. "That ratass stole my wheels. "

  "We can steal another car," one of the others ventured. "From where? This is our neighborhood. We don't shit where we eat, haven't I told you guys that a million times?"

  "What, then?"

  "We take the subway. It goes out to the governor's neighborhood."

  Their Uzis and pistols in gym bags, Antonio Serrano led the Eastie Goombahs to the subway, and they rode into town. They changed to the surface trolley and settled down for the ride.

  The trolley took the Eastie Goombahs through a world they barely knew existed. Only a few miles from their dirty environment there was a place of clean streets and elmdrapped parks. The people on the trolleys dressed neat and looked confident. There were none of the graffiti that marred their own neighborhood subway stops.

  "This is weird," said Johnny Fortunato, the youngest Goombah. "Look how clean everything is."

  "Shut up," said Antonio. But the kid was right. It was nice out here in the governor's neighborhood. Even the air smelled nice, like they had giant Air Wicks hidden out of sight. Antonio decided that when he made it big, really big, he'd move out here to a nice house. Maybe the place next to the governor's house. Then he remembered. After tonight, the governor would be dead.

  Hell, maybe he'd buy the governor's house. Or better yet, figure out a way to steal it. Was it possible to steal a house? Antonio didn't know. But he would look into it.

  * * *

  "Here he comes, Little Father," Remo said.

  "Good," said the Master of Sinanju, rolling up the scroll he had been working on. They were seated in the back of a Lincoln Continental parked in the garage under the State House.

  "He's got the briefcase with him," Remo said. "What's your plan?"

  "We take it from him."

  "Yeah, right. I got that much figured out. I'm asking how."

  As they watched, the governor sauntered over to a car that, hours before, when they had searched the garage looking for the governor's vehicle, Remo had instantly dismissed as a candidate.

  "He's getting into that beat-up station wagon," Remo said, peering up from the back seat of the Lincoln.

  "I thought you said that it would be this car."

  "I figured it was. It's the biggest, most expensive one in the whole freaking lot. It's got state plates and everything."

  The Master of Sinanju f
olded his arms angrily. "My great plan is ruined, thanks to your ignorance."

  "Tell me about it on the way," said Remo, jumping into the front seat. He slid behind the wheel, broke the ignition off the steering post, and quickly hot-wired the car. The engine roared into life.

  "You have done your part," said Chiun, climbing over the headrest. "Now I will drive."

  "Nothing doing," said Remo, sending the car wheeling after the governor's station wagon. "I don't have a death wish."

  "You are just jealous of my driving skill," said the Master of Sinanju, settling into the passenger side.

  "I admit it. You're a brilliant driver. You can make a car do stunts it was never engineered for. Except for minor stuff like staying on the road and stopping for lights and pedestrians. Now, will you settle down? I have to concentrate if I'm going to stay with this guy."

  "It is too late. My plan is ruined."

  "Maybe if you'd tell me about it, I can salvage something," Remo suggested.

  "Very well. But only because recovering that letter is important to Emperor Smith. My plan was simple, but do not confuse its simplicity with ease of execution. It was brilliant but complicated."

  "Just get to it, huh?"

  "Unappreciative philistine! I had us hide in the back of this conveyance-which you swore belonged to the governor of this province-so that when he got into the front seat he would, as so many of his type do, throw the briefcase into the back seat."

  "Yeah?"

  "Directly into our hands," said Chiun triumphantly.

  "Okay," Remo said slowly.

  "Yes!" said Chiun.

  "I got that part. What's the rest?"

  "What rest? That was it. Once we had the briefcase, we would be in possession of the letter."

  "Yeah," said Remo, stopping for a red light. "But we would have been stuck in the back seat while the governor drove home-or whatever he was doing,"

  "So? Once he arrived, we would only have had to wait until he left his vehicle, leaving us with the briefcase."

  "But, Little Father, don't you think that when he reached into the back seat he would have noticed us huddling on the floorboards?"

  "Of course not. We are Sinanju. We are trained not to be seen. We are the fog that steals through the woods, the shadow that is cast by no body. Of course he would not have seen us."