Known Devil

by Matthew Hughes

  The consigliere was punctual, sliding into the booth just as the clock over the bar reached the top of the hour. The room was full of the buzz of about two dozen half-drunk cops having what passed for conversation; I had to lean forward so he could hear me, and maybe that was just as well. I nodded toward the glass resting on his side of the table. “I ordered you a bourbon on the rocks, like you had last time. Don’t drink it if you don’t want to – it’s just for show.”

  “Just as well,” Loquasto said. He had to lean forward as well. We’d look like conspirators, except every other booth in the room featured the same thing. “As I recall, it isn’t very good bourbon.”

  “I guess most cops don’t have your refined taste in booze.”

  He raised an eyebrow at me. “I hope you had in mind something more interesting to talk about than your tiresome class envy.”

  “Yeah, I did, actually,” I said. “How’s the war with the Delatassos going?”

  “We’ve taken some losses recently, but it’s not over yet. I have no doubt that Mister Calabrese will ultimately prevail.”

  He was both a Mafia consigliere and a lawyer, so I couldn’t tell that he was lying – even though I knew he was. Word on the street was that the Calabrese Family – what was left of it – was hunkered down in defensive positions, driven off their turf by the Delatassos’ car bombs and superior firepower.

  “What would you say,” I asked him, “if I told you there was a way for your boss to get the Delatassos out of Scranton and out of his face – for good – in just a few days?”

  He looked at me for a second or two, then picked up the glass of mediocre bourbon and drained it in two swallows.

  “I would say, ‘Tell me more,’ naturally.”

  “It involves more work for your pet shark, John Wesley Harding,” I said.

  “I have no idea to whom you’re referring ,” he said. Loquasto was not only an expert liar but a grammar maven, too. “But do continue, if you wish.”

  “You know that Ronnie Delatasso is trying to take over in Scranton because he’s probably never gonna head the main branch of the family down in Philly – his old man being undead and all.”

  “I believe I was the one who conveyed that information to you, Sergeant.”

  “I’m just trying to set the stage,” I said. “OK, Delatasso Senior is undead – but that’s not necessarily a synonym for ‘immortal’, as the number of vampires who have died in this town recently should demonstrate.”

  “Yes, I was aware of that very basic fact,” Loquasto said. “Were you planning to tell me anything that I don’t already know?”

  “I was just going to point out to you that if something should happen to his old man, Ronnie would probably pull up stakes here – no pun intended – and go back home to take over the family business. He’s the only son, right?”

  “Yes.” Loquasto chewed his lower lip for a moment. “But if you’re suggesting that some hypothetical ‘pet shark’ of ours should be sent to Philadelphia on a mission to assassinate Charles Delatasso, you’re wasting your time – and mine.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “If we did have some Boston hit man on retainer, I would be fairly certain that he’s never worked in Philadelphia before.”

  “And that would be a major problem?” I already knew the answer to that question, but I wanted Loquasto to say it himself.

  “Of course.” He made an impatient gesture with one hand. “A man like Delatasso is going to be well protected. If there is a gap in his personal security, even a local professional could take weeks finding it. As for someone coming in from out of town, who’s unfamiliar with both the city and its criminal element…” Loquasto’s thin lips pursed for a second before turning down at the corners in a frown. “Let’s say that the talents of such a man would be better employed… elsewhere.”

  “Good as Harding is, he hasn’t been able to stop the Delatassos from kicking your asses so far.”

  “I would dispute your characterization of asses being kicked, as you so elegantly put it,” Loquasto said. “Besides, as I told you, it’s not over yet.”

  “But you agree that if Charlie Delatasso was to run into the business end of a wooden stake tomorrow, your troubles would be over.”

  “In theory, perhaps. But I find wishful thinking a waste of time and mental energy, Sergeant.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” I said. “I don’t figure it would come as a surprise to you that the Philadelphia cops have been keeping the Delatasso family under surveillance for years, waiting for the Don to make a mistake so they can put him away.”

  “As you say, not much of a surprise.” Loquasto maintained his poker face, but I was close enough to see the pupils of his eyes contract, which meant that I’d finally said something that interested him.

  “What if this guy you never heard of, John Wesley Harding, got his hands on the Philly Organized Crime Unit’s file on Delatasso? A file that lays out where the Don spends the day, the places where he does business, and the guys he hangs out with – including names, addresses, phone numbers, and even photos of Delatasso and his ‘business associates’?”

  Loquasto sat back in the booth and looked at me for a few seconds. “I’d say that kind of information would be of… considerable interest.”

  “There’s one thing you were wrong about, earlier, Counselor.”

  I got the raised eyebrow treatment again. “Indeed?”

  “Delatasso Senior’s got bodyguards, sure, both for daytime and at night – but only a few, and they’re not what you might call high-quality guys.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Uh-huh. It’s been more than ten years since anybody made a serious move against Delatasso. He’s been top dog down there for so long, he’s grown complacent. And so has his security.”

  “And you reached this conclusion how, exactly?”

  “By reading the OCU’s file – the one I told you about.”

  “I see.” Loquasto stared into his empty glass as if it were a crystal ball. Then he looked up. “I believe I’ll have another drink,” he said. “Can I get you anything?”

  “No, I’m good, thanks.” I figured Loquasto wanted another shot of that bourbon about as much as I wanted another hemorrhoid, but if the guy wanted some time to think, I was happy to give it to him.

  The service in the Brass Shield isn’t what you might call speedy, so it was almost five minutes before Loquasto returned with his fresh drink.

  He sat down, took a sip, and grimaced slightly at the taste. Then he leaned forward. “Alright, Markowski – what do you want?”

  “Two things,” I said. “One of them is information.”

  “Concerning?”

  “Patton Wilson.”

  Loquasto’s eyes narrowed. “That rich fool who was behind all the ‘helter-skelter’ nonsense last year? What about him?”

  “I want to know where he is.”

  “Somewhere in Australia, the last I heard.”

  “Then your information is out of date. He’s here.”

  Loquasto blinked a couple of times. “Here?”

  “In Scranton. Or close by.”

  “What’s the source of your information?” he said quickly.

  “Sorry, that’s confidential,” I said. “But it’s reliable.” I didn’t want to have to explain that I was working from deduction here, rather than cold fact. I wanted results from Loquasto, not an argument. Anyway, a guy named William of Occam once wrote something along the lines of “The simplest explanation that fits the known facts is probably true.” And there was only one thing that made sense out of the chaos I’d been dealing with – Patton Wilson was back.

  “I find it difficult to believe that Wilson could be in the area without any of our people even catching so much as a glimpse of him.”

  “Somebody with Wilson’s money can buy a lot of concealment,” I said. “Besides, you had no reason to look for him – until now.”

  “Alright,” Loquasto said. “
I’ll have all our people start beating the bushes. If Wilson is in the area, they’ll locate him. I hope you’re not also expecting us to… deal with him for you.”

  “No, just tell me where he is – I’ll take it from there.”

  “Very well. So, you want an address for Mister Wilson. What else is that file of yours going to cost us?”

  I hesitated. What I’d done in the past twenty minutes or so had probably broken about six different laws, but what I was about to say now was really over the line.

  “You ever hear of Dimitri Kaspar?” I asked him.

  Loquasto thought for a moment. “Local vampire, isn’t he? Not affiliated with the Family. Fancies himself some kind of politician, I understand.”

  “That’s the guy. He’s also Patton Wilson’s candidate for the office of Supefather.”

  “For what?”

  “Sorry. That’s the name some of us use for whoever’s the head of the local supernaturals.”

  “Like the late Victor Castle, you mean.”

  “Exactly.”

  He made a face. “Mister Calabrese has never paid much attention to the local power structure, such as it is. The Family makes its own rules.”

  “I figured as much. But plenty of others do pay attention, which is why Wilson is bankrolling Kaspar. The guy’s a militant supe-premacist – humans are just walking blood bags, blah, blah, blah. If he becomes head of our supe community, he’s gonna cause just the kind of trouble that Wilson can take advantage of to spread his helter-skelter bullshit.”

  “What do you expect us to do about it?”

  I took in a deep breath and let it out. No turning back now. “I want you to kill him.”

  My car was right where I’d left it – parked in the shadows but with a clear view of the Brass Shield’s front door – and so was my partner. As I slid behind the wheel, Karl turned off the radio. The volume was so low that I couldn’t even tell what he’d been listening to, although it was probably that Pittston station that plays golden oldies.

  “Everything go OK?” I asked him.

  “Sure, no sweat. I was waiting near that big fucking Caddie that Loquasto drives. When he came out of the bar, I handed him the envelope. He didn’t seem too surprised.”

  “No, he was expecting you.”

  “I thought for a second that he was gonna pull out his wallet and hand me a tip, but then I guess he remembered where he was. He just gave me a nod, got in his car, and drove off. He’s been gone two, three minutes.”

  “Good – and thanks.”

  “What kind of mileage you figure he gets in that thing?”

  “If you have to ask about the mileage, then you probably can’t afford the car.”

  “Ah, I wouldn’t want one of them battleships anyway, even if I had the scratch. Too hard to park it.”

  “Lots of trunk room, though,” I said.

  “I was hoping not to spend any more time inside the trunk of a car – anybody’s car.”

  “Good plan.”

  “So he went for it, huh?” Karl asked.

  “Course he did. Otherwise I’d have called you and said sit tight with the envelope.”

  I could have started the engine and driven off then, but I didn’t – maybe because I figured Karl wasn’t finished yet. I was right.

  “We’re sailing on what your buddy Sherlock Holmes would call some dark fuckin’ waters, Stan,” he said finally.

  “Damn right we are. But if you’ve got any better ideas, you should’ve told me about ’em before I went in there.”

  Karl turned his head away slowly to stare out the window at the night. I wondered what he saw out there with his vampire sight that I was missing. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem to make him happy.

  “No, I didn’t have a better idea before,” he said, “and I still don’t. Sometimes, all the choices you have in life just fucking suck. You ever think that?”

  “More times than I can count,” I said. “But I also try to remember something else.”

  “What?”

  “The choices may all suck, but that doesn’t mean some aren’t worse than others.”

  “Yeah I guess you’re right.” Karl reached for the strap and buckled his safety belt. A trip through the windshield at high speed probably wouldn’t do him serious harm, but the law’s the law.

  “So, what do we do now?” he asked.

  I turned the ignition key, then put the Toyota into gear. It was time to report for work. “Now we wait.”

  So we waited – for four days. I tried not to think about the fact that Loquasto was under no real pressure to fulfill his part of the bargain. He could just take our information and do nothing in return – what were we gonna do? Sue him?

  I’d say that the suspense was unbearable, but Karl and I were too busy most of the time to think about it. All the cops on the Occult Crimes Unit had our hands full.

  It didn’t help that we had the full moon during that time, which naturally resulted in increased lycanthropic activity. Werewolves aren’t more prone to criminal behavior than any other species – including humans – but those with violent tendencies seem to find encouragement each month in that round, glowing disc overhead. Of course, the Patriot Party was quick to point that out, as “proof” that supernaturals were inherently antisocial and needed to be controlled. They didn’t have the nerve just yet to use the word they really meant – eliminated – but I figured that was only a matter of time, especially if that bunch of nuts won the upcoming election.

  A couple of ogres in a downtown bar got into a fight over a female of the species. No humans were hurt but the property damage was substantial. Ogres are hard to subdue, so one of the responding cops called in the Sacred Weapons and Tactics unit. But by the time SWAT got there, the female had left in disgust, and the two male ogres, realizing there wasn’t anything to fight about, were sitting at what was left of the bar, having a beer. I hear they went to County Jail quietly, although neither of them made bail.

  There was an ugly situation involving a golem on Monday night. A member of Temple Beth Israel’s congregation got the idea that Rabbi Jacobson was messing around with his wife. That turned out to be bullshit, but it didn’t stop the guy from hiring a Kabbalistic wizard to get even in the traditional fashion. The golem had chased Rabbi Jacobson all over the inside of the temple and almost had him cornered when Karl and I showed up – SWAT was busy across town, where a bunch of Slide-addicted dwarves had tried to take down the all-night branch of Citizens Savings, but a teller had tripped the silent alarm before the little bastards had a chance to get clear.

  The golem was at least eight feet tall, and single-minded in its purpose of pounding the rabbi into porridge. Nothing you can shoot a golem with makes a damn bit of difference, but I’d encountered one before and knew what to do. The thing is animated by a piece of paper in its mouth on which the wizard has written a shem – any one of the several Hebrew names for God. Remove the paper, you deactivate the golem. Of course, the thing is programmed to resist any attempts to grab the paper, and I’d have been crushed by its giant arms if I’d gotten close enough to try. Fortunately, my partner has vampire speed. Once I’d explained what needed to be done, Karl had the shem out if its mouth so fast, the golem didn’t even have time to react before it crumbled into the big pile of mud that had been its original form. Rabbi Jacobson thanked us warmly for the great mitzvah we’d done him, but Karl and I said we’d just been doing our jobs. When we left, he was looking through the phone book for carpet cleaners who were open late.

  When we got back to our car, there was a number ten envelope stuck under one of the wiper blades. I opened it and saw that Louis Loquasto had come through for us after all.

  The message had been printed by a computer. It didn’t waste words on social niceties, which was OK with me.

  Resident of former Callaway home on Lake Scranton appears to be PW. Unable to determine with certainty, as grounds and house well-guarded, but this itself lends credibility. Other
matters are well in hand, with positive results expected shortly.

  It was signed – if that’s the right word – with a simple “L”.

  “Huh,” Karl said when he’d read it. “I guess ‘other matters’ means those two guys he’s gonna hit, old man Delatasso and Dimitri what’s-his-name.”

  “Kaspar.”

  “Yeah, him.”

  “Kaspar’s a vampire, Karl.”

  “Yeah, you already told me. So?”

  “So, I was wondering if you’ve got any kind of problem with him being taken off the board,” I said.

  Karl gave me a half-smile. “‘Taken off the board.’ Jeez, Stan, you’re starting to talk like a Mafia boss yourself.”

  “You know what I mean, and don’t change the subject,” I said. “Kaspar’s a vampire, and I asked Loquasto to have him killed. You’re a vampire, so I was wondering if it bothers you.”

  “I’m a cop, too,” he said. “And I was a cop before I became a vamp.”

  “I know that,” I said. Who would know better? Christine had brought Karl over because I’d asked her to. It was either that or watch Karl die from injuries he’d received while helping me catch a killer.

  “You were with Homicide before Occult Crimes,” Karl said. “And a street cop before that. Right?”

  “Yeah. Six years in uniform before I got my gold shield. So?”

  “You ever kill any humans in the line of duty?”

  “I think I see where you’re going with this,” I said.

  “Well, did you?”

  “Yeah – two as a street cop, and one while I was a Homicide dick.”

  Karl nodded. “Did it bother you?”

  “Yeah. Some.”

  “Because you killed them – or because they were human?”

  A few seconds went by. “I guess I’d probably say that you proved your point.”

  “Then how about you not ask me any more stupid-ass questions. Deal?”

  “Deal. What do you say we go back to the station and see what we can find out about this Callaway place?”

  “That’s the second-best idea you’ve had tonight,” Karl said.

  “What was number one?”