“He's the one who showed me the obituaries back in Boston. And he even came to my funeral in Ohio.”
“How nice. Did he send flowers?”
“Shut up and sit down,” Gino glared at her. “Both of you.”
I sat. Sandy didn't. She looked over at me, then at him, then back at me again. “The FBI. The Mafia. And now a hit man.” She shook her head angrily. “Non ci credo.” I don't believe this, she muttered in Italian.
“Cosa t'aspetti?” What did you expect? Parini chuckled. “And is that a hint of Palermo I hear underneath that bad Italian?”
“Her Polish in-laws call her “that little wop girl,” I added, but she had had enough. She turned and smacked me across the side of the head. I barely saw her hand move, but my ear was ringing. “I thought you were on my side, Gino. How come you didn't stop her?”
“You thought wrong. I ain't on nobody's side and it ain't me she was smackin’,” he said as he stood up and pushed her into her chair with one finger to the center of her chest. “Nuthin’ personal, but like I said, sit down.” With his big arms and barrel chest, he towered over her and her courage shrank into the chair cushion. “Now what do we got here, Ace? A great housekeeper. Speaks Italian. From all the beer cans and bottles, she drinks too damned much. And it says "S. A. Kasmarek" on the mailbox. So who is she?”
“Eddie Kasmarek's widow,” I said.
“Who the fuck's Eddie Kasmarek?”
“Like me, another name they used to bury somebody up in Oak Hill Cemetery, compliments of Messieurs Varner, Greene, Tinkerton, and Dannmeyer.”
I had Gino's full attention now. “No shit?”
“No shit. And you followed me here, didn't you? All the way from Columbus.”
“All the way from Boston. I put a beeper on your Bronco but you lost it.”
“I didn't lose it, they stole it.”
“Yeah, well, that made following you a whole lot harder.”
“Why didn't you just give me a ride?” I asked. “It would have made the trip a lot easier, but you wanted to see what I'd flush out, didn't you?”
Parini shrugged. “Yesterday morning I saw you checking her out, then you tailed her over to that mall on Michigan, where I lost you. But Tinkerton's clowns still had this place staked out, so I knew they hadn't got you yet. I came back here and waited.”
“They laid a trap for me over at the Water Tower,” I answered. “But they missed.”
“Missed, huh?” Parini studied me for a moment. “Don't let it go to your freakin’ head. You been lucky. If Tinkerton really wants you, sooner or later he's going to get you.” He motioned toward Sandy and shook his head. “And I'm disappointed in you, Ace. It ain't smart, you draggin' her into this thing. I expected better.”
“I needed her help,” I answered sheepishly.
“Help? When a guy drags a broad into shit like this, they always screw up and get the guy killed.” He focused those hard eyes on me. “So, what was so freakin’ important that you had to come to Chicago and get her “help” in the first place?”
“Okay,” I tried to explain. “You know how they buried Louie Panozzo and his wife in Oak Hill using my name and my wife Terri's, right? Well, there's another grave up there with her ex-husband Eddie's name on it, and two for a guy named Skeppington and his wife, two for a guy named Pryor and his wife, and two for a guy named Brownstein and his wife. If you dig those up, you're going to find the bodies of some your old pals from Newark, like Richie Benvenuto, Clement 'the Mole' Aleppo, Paul Mantucci, and Johnny Dantonio. But I think there's more, a lot more. They're only the tip of the iceberg.”
Parini stared at me, astonished. “How the Hell did you…”
“I read the newspaper. Panozzo and his wife lived in Columbus for over six months, using my name and my wife's before they had their little “accident.” And that's the way they were buried: Mr. and Mrs. Peter Emerson Talbott. The others were all the same. That's how I found them. Accidents. Varner signed the death certificates, Greene buried them, Tinkerton was their executor, and Dannmeyer provided the police protection, not that they needed it, because they thought Terri and I were already dead and buried back in California. In her case, they were right. In mine, they were wrong.”
“So they bit on that old obituary in LA papers, the one that said you died in Mexico?” Parini leaned forward and listened intently.
“When I told Tinkerton how they got it all wrong, he just laughed and admitted that every now and then their computers screwed up.” I smiled. “What they missed was the fact that I wasn't dead.”
“Not yet anyway,” Parini snorted as he looked over at Sandy.
“Okay, Gino, a little wager.” I leaned forward in the chair. “I'll bet you that .45 of yours that ‘the Mole’ wasn't married.”
Parini leaned back and studied me carefully for a moment, but he didn't bite.
“Come on, Gino. A little gentlemanly wager?” I goaded him.
“Nah, I can read your eyes. You don't bluff so well, kid. You know something.”
“I told him he can't lie worth a damn,” Sandy interjected. “But while you two keep screwing around, those guys in the gray sedans are coming back.”
“I'm right, aren't I?” I ignored her. ‘The Mole” was single, wasn't he?”
“Yeah, he was single, but how'd you know?”
“With a name like that?”
Parini roared with laughter. “Yeah, my dumb. That was a no-brainer, wasn't it?”
“That's why when they dig up Eddie Kasmarek's grave in Columbus, they're going to find “the Mole's” body inside,” I said. “See, they needed the name of a single guy and they thought Eddie was single. They didn't know about Sandy, because they had an ugly divorce last year and none of Eddie's obituaries mentioned her.”
“I wouldn't let them,” she answered. “I didn't want anything more to do with that bastard.”
Parini leaned back and stared at her and at me, then slowly nodded. “You know, you might be onto something, Ace.”
“Peter, we need to get that stuff and get the hell out of here,” Sandy said.
“What stuff?” Gino asked
“The papers I have on Eddie,” she answered. “His death certificate, the obituary from the Tribune, maybe receipts from his insurance, the ambulance, the cemetery, that kinda stuff.”
“And if I can get some proof on those other guys: Skeppington, Brownstein, and Pryor, and their wives...”
“Not a bad idea.” Gino nodded. “But you got lucky. They've only got a skeleton crew here, pardon the pun, just the three cars so far, but there'll be a lot more pretty soon, Tinkerton too. My big Lincoln's parked two blocks over and you and me, we gotta get out of here, Ace.”
Sandy looked at me and almost exploded. “What's this “you and me, Ace” crap? I thought it was you and me doing this thing, Talbott, the two of us, together, remember?”
“Sandy, look…” I tried to explain.
“What? You're leaving me here? I knew it!”
“They don't have anything on you.”
“No? How about a bunch of men's clothes on my credit card, all your size, and your fingerprints all over my aunt's place. Well, at least I don't have them all over me!”
“You can still walk away from all this.”
“Walk away? She folded her arms across her chest and glared at me. “Yesterday I was next on their list, a “loose end” they were going to make “disappear.” Remember? Can you say, “accomplice,” and “aiding and abetting,” or maybe “accessory?”
“I don't want to see you get hurt, Sandy.”
“How sweet. Well, fuck you, Talbott. And fuck you too, Parini! I guess all that “stuff” isn't so damned important anymore.”
“Some mouth on that woman of yours, Ace.”
She raised her hand and would have smacked him too, gun or no gun, until I stepped between them. “Okay, okay. You're right. I can't leave you behind. You can come with.”
“What a freakin’ wuss.” Par
ini shook his head sarcastically.
“Do you really mean that?” She glared. “Or are you just saying it to shut me up.”
“I mean it, honest,” I told her. “I couldn't live with myself if anything happened to you. So, come with me, please.”
“You're gonna regret this,” Parini warned.
“Probably,” I replied. “But I got her into it, and I need to get her out. Now go get those damned papers.”
“Apology accepted,” Sandy said as she looked across at Parini and stuck out her tongue. “And the big Dago's right, you are a wuss.” She dashed down the hall to her bedroom and came back out, jamming a large handful of papers into her shoulder bag as she ran past me. She was coming with. Half of me was glad she was and half knew Parini was right. It was a mistake. Being stupid and risking my own life was one thing, but now I was risking hers too.
Parini opened the back door and looked out. “Shut up and stay behind me,” he said as he stepped onto the rear porch and motioned for us to follow. We moved quickly and quietly down the twisting flights of stairs with Gino in front, Sandy in the middle, and me taking up the rear. When we reached the bottom, Parini stopped and we stopped behind him. The staircase continued down to the right into dark shadows, where it ended at the basement door a half-floor below, but we weren't going that far. As Gino stepped forward into the yard, I saw a black automatic pistol rise from the shadows in the dark stairwell below and it was pointed at his back, less than five feet away. The arm was in a dark suit coat, with a white shirt, French cuffs, and gold cuff links. Before I could react, Sandy swung her heavy shoulder bag over the handrail. With a ferocious grunt that would have made Anna Kournikova proud, she slammed the bag into the gunman's face and arm, spoiling his aim and knocking him backward down the stairs as he pulled the trigger.
In the narrow confines of the concrete stairwell, the pistol went off with an, echoing, ear-splitting “Blang!” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Parini grab his leg and go down hard. I had no doubt the gunman's plan was to take Parini out with the first shot and then turn the automatic on Sandy and me. The only reason he failed was Sandy's purse.
The gunman had fallen down the stairs, but he didn't stay down long. He came charging back up with his gun out, swearing angrily. I didn't get a good look at him, but when I saw the French cuff and the flash of gold, I knew this was the head goon in the sunglasses that Sandy threw into the wall. His pistol was already tracking around toward her, when something inside me snapped. Without thinking, I let loose a blood-curdling scream and dove over the railing onto him. In that instant, he came to personalize all of my frustrations going back to LA, Terri's death, losing my job, Columbus, the Bronco, the embalming table in the basement of Greene's Funeral Home, and all the rest of it. The scream distracted him just long enough. After that, the poor bastard could have been Freddie Krueger with his steel fingernails and a chain saw, and he wouldn't have stood a chance.
I landed next to him with feet, elbows, knees, and fists flying. He tried to bring the gun around and take me out, but my right fist found his face first, with everything I could put behind it. The automatic went off a second time and a loud, echoing “Blang! Blang!” before my fingers found his wrist. I knocked the gun aside and raked his knuckles down the rough brick wall. He grunted and the automatic fell on the bare concrete floor below.
That was a nice start, but even without the pistol, he had a lot more experience at this kind of thing than I did. I was tottering back and forth on the edge of the stair above him, losing my balance, as he attacked. He grabbed me by the throat. Hand bleeding, nose swollen, he swung me around and slammed me against the rough concrete wall. His fingers felt like vise-grips as they dug into my throat and closed around my Adam's apple. I tucked my chin into my chest and twisted away, but he was way ahead of me. He squeezed harder and the pain paralyzed me. Somehow, I fought through the haze. I pushed off the wall and drove my shoulder into him. His heels slipped off the stair and he lost his balance. His grip on my throat relaxed just enough for me to get one deep breath and plant a fist in his ribs.
Arms flailing, he toppled over backward and fell down the stairs. As he did, he grabbed my shirt and pulled me down with him, which was a mistake. When we hit the dark concrete landing below, he was upside down, his body under mine. I heard a short, sharp “Snap,” like a dry tree branch cracking in a strong wind. The air went out of him and he went limp beneath me. Gasping, I rolled over and looked down at him, expecting to have to hit him again, but he wasn't moving. His neck bent at an odd angle. His eyes were wide open and he looked like a dead trout on a bed of ice in a fish market. Even in the dim light, I knew he was dead. That was when the shakes began. I had never killed anyone before. I leaned against the wall and puked up that morning's breakfast in the corner of the stairwell.
Eventually I heard a voice calling me, “Talbott ... Talbott!” It was Parini. “If you're done playing with that guy, get your ass up here. I need help.”
I stumbled up the stairs into the bright light of the back yard where Gino lay on the grass holding his bleeding leg. Sandy knelt next to him. I could see he'd been shot in the thigh and his white pants leg was leaking a lot of very unfashionable dark-red blood. “They aren't gonna let you in the yacht club looking like that,” I warned.
“You and your fuckin' jokes,” he said, obviously in a lot of pain. He unbuckled his belt, pulled it out, and tried to wrap it around his leg, “Godamnit, help me with this thing.”
I was still in a daze, but Sandy wasn't. She quickly threaded the belt back through the buckle and drew it tighter around his leg. “More,” he growled. “Tighter!”
She gave him an unsympathetic shrug and pulled back with everything she had.
“Good,” Parini groaned painfully as he held out his hand to me. “Now help me up.”
Gino was more than twice her size and way too heavy for her to handle alone. I got under his other arm. Together, we got him to his feet and headed for the back gate when I remembered something. “Wait a minute,” I said as I left him leaning on Sandy.
“Hey,” he shouted angrily, but I ignored him and ran back down the stairs. I found the goon's automatic lying next to him. I stuck it in my waistband and pawed through his pockets, pulling out a wallet and a badge case. It was too dark to read what they said, but the mere fact he had one made the hair stand on the back of my neck. I ran back upstairs. When I got there, the two of them were already limping across the yard toward the rear gate and I heard Sandy mumbling, “I can't believe I'm doing this; I can't believe I'm doing this…” I got under Gino's other arm and we made it through the gate and into the alley.
“That was the FBI guy with the gold cuff links, wasn't it?” Sandy asked. I nodded. “If I hadn't decked him with my purse, he was going to shoot you, wasn't he?”
“He did shoot me,” Parini grimaced.
“No, I mean Talbott,” she said. “He was supposed to kill Talbott, wasn't he?”
“He was supposed to kill all of us, Sweet Pea, but the smart play was to take me out first. That's how I'd have done it. Then I'd a popped the two of you.”
“Just like that, huh?” she said, laboring under his bulk.
“Just like that. Tinkerton would kill his grandmother if he thought he could put this genie back in the bottle, believe me.”
“Tinkerton?” she questioned. “That guy was FBI. I saw his ID card and badge.”
“You saw what they wanted you to see,” Parini answered.
I pulled out the gunman's automatic and looked at it in the light. “It's a Beretta, Gino.” I held it up and showed him. “Are the Feds using Italian handguns now?”
“He wasn't no Fed,” Parini said as his big paw swallowed the automatic and he slipped it into his pocket. “And you don't want this on you, Ace. It's goin’ in the freakin’ river.”
I pulled out the gunman's badge case, flipped it open, and saw a brass badge with a blue and red crest and an ID card in the name of Michael Alvarez, Specia
l Investigator, U. S. Justice Department. “This says the Justice Department, Gino, the goddamned Justice Department.”
“Don't believe everything you read, Ace,” he said as he pocketed that too.
“Well, it looked real enough to me,” Sandy answered.
“It's supposed to, you ditz. That's why they make 'em. And that Beretta he had was real nice. Top of the line, very expensive. Only a pro, a good contract killer or some serious in-house shooter would have one of those.”
“How do we know it wasn't you he was after, Gino?” she asked.
“Because he didn't recognize me. He didn't know who I was.”
“How do you know that?” she asked again.
Parini shook his head. “Look, I don't want to brag, but I come with a lot of reputation, and a lot of baggage. I'm what you might call a “consultant” for certain tri-state area business” interests.”
“Yeah, well, now you're a consultant with a bullet hole in his leg,” Sandy grunted.
“If Tinkerton had put a hit out on me, I'd find out, and he knows his people ain't good enough to pull it off. I'd kill them and then I'd kill him, and he knows it. So, no, it was you two the guy was after, not me. But that was a nice whack you gave him, Sweet Pea.” Parini tried to smile through the pain. “You nailed him pretty good. I owe ya.”
“Hey! I'm the one who went dancing down the stairs with him.” I reminded him.
She glared at both of us. “And if my Pentax is broken, both of you are going to be dancing, because somebody's going to have Hell to pay.”
We kept moving until we reached the next street. Parini was limping painfully, struggling to stay on his feet. He looked quickly to the left and right, but there were no government cars to be seen. “Looks like we lucked out, he said. “They must still be short-handed, but Tinkerton won't make that mistake again.”
“Speaking of mistakes,” Sandy groaned as she took a firmer grip on the seat of his sagging pants. “You need to knock off the pasta or get shot with somebody else next time.”
“She always this disrespectful?” he asked. When I chose not answer, he added, “That's what I figured. You're either nuts or in love, sport. Either way, you're a freakin’ dead man walking.”
The Undertaker Page 20
