by Brian Drake
“The lawyer?”
“He defended mobsters in New York. Maybe we can get something from him.”
“I can’t meet till evening. How about your hotel at eight tonight?”
“I’ll bring Ali.”
Stiletto ended the call and looked across the grounds where Ali stood talking with the cemetery director. He did most of the talking. Eventually they shook hands and went back inside the main building. A little later, she emerged with a folder under one arm. She didn’t talk as they drove away.
Stiletto figured she had a right to know what he had in mind. What to do after he told her was another story. She couldn’t join him. It also might not be totally safe to leave her alone at the condo.
“Are you good with your pistol?” he said.
“A little.”
“We have a meeting with my F.B.I. buddy tonight at eight, my hotel. After that, I’ll be going out. Keep that gun handy.”
“Do I want to know?”
Stiletto didn’t fight his grin. “Anything I tell you makes you an accessory.”
She didn’t return the smile.
Chapter Seven
Scott and Ali sat in a booth in Fast Eddie’s Coffee Shop in the lobby of the Hyatt. A trio of men sat at the bar watching a TV mounted in the corner, the muted lighting and dark carpeting and walls providing more of a shadowy atmosphere than Stiletto would have liked.
Stiletto ate a BLT but Ali refused anything but coffee. She was on her third cup of coffee and Stiletto sipped water with lemon. He checked his watch.
“Should be here soon.”
Ali did not reply. Her eyes remained on her coffee mug.
“Are you sorry you came?” she said.
“What? No. Of course not.”
“It can’t be easy for you, either.”
“Because of us?”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Ali said.
“Well, you did,” he said, “but the fact is I wasn’t going to quit the Company for you. It wouldn’t have worked in the long run, no matter what.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“I don’t mean it that way,” he said.
“Then why did you think I was insulting you last night?”
Stiletto shrugged. “Residual. . .embers?”
“Residual something.”
“I didn’t say I was happy about what I said. Maybe I have a problem. Maybe I use field work to avoid relationships, I don’t know.”
“Why would you want to avoid them?”
“I’m just throwing words out,” he said, “but something wasn’t right between us and we needed to split. It doesn’t make it any easier. I don’t even think I’ve answered your question.”
“In a way, you did. It’s. . .well, complicated.”
“I think we can leave it at that.”
When Toby O’Brien entered, Stiletto felt a sense of relief. He wondered if Ali did too. Now they could direct their attention at him instead of each other, which was proving to be a bad idea.
The F.B.I. man slid into the booth next to Ali. They said hello and shook hands. Stiletto pulled out the printed picture of Ben Pito and handed it across the table as the waiter took O’Brien’s order. O’Brien set the picture on the table and removed a notebook from inside his jacket.
“I had to dig into some old files to find out about this guy,” O’Brien said. “He’s indeed repped some wise guys in New York, but we have no definite connection between him and Califano. Except. . .”
“What?” Stiletto said.
“He joined Fairmont’s company about the same time Fairmont got cozy with Califano.”
Ali said, “Who are you two talking about?”
Stiletto and O’Brien explained the suspected connection between Fairmont and the local mobster Califano. Ali shook her head.
“Max and the mob? I don’t believe it.”
“It’s the only thing that explains what’s happening,” Stiletto said. “Where else do you think he found a thug like McCormick?”
“I found nothing on the big man, by the way,” O’Brien said. “Covers his tracks well.”
Ali shifted. “That’s just crazy. Really? The mob is involved?”
“Fairmont’s company is going south,” Stiletto said. “Yours is not. He wants it so Califano doesn’t have him killed.”
O’Brien agreed. “If Fairmont goes under, the banks may discover the funny business. Can’t have that.”
“Wait,” Ali said, “if it’s mob, that means federal, that means F.B.I., which means you can take over, right?”
“We’re only talking theory,” O’Brien said. “Right now, I have no reason to get my people involved.” To Scott: “Why Pito?”
“Maybe I can make him talk. If he’s the connection between the two, his testimony can make the case.”
“What are you suggesting?”
Stiletto shrugged. “A little persuasion.”
“You want to go to prison?”
“I’m only planning on talking to him.”
“So you’ll lose your job instead?”
“Do you have another idea, Toby? If I can bring you a witness, you can start a case. Am I wrong?”
“This is dangerous.”
“I only see you making excuses,” Stiletto said.
“That’s low.”
“Scott,” Ali said, “stop it.”
Stiletto ignored her. “We’re in the middle of a major criminal conspiracy that’s claimed three lives that we know of. They’re going to claim more. You can bet they’ll try for me. Sitting on the sidelines isn’t an option.”
“If they want Ali’s company so bad,” O’Brien said, “just wait them out. They’ll get desperate and make a move and then we’ll have something.”
“You may have me and Ali dead.”
“There will be no support if you do this, Scott.”
“Remember who you’re talking to.”
Ali said, “I don’t like this.”
Stiletto looked at her. “What else did you bring me out for?”
“I’m not sure anymore.”
“There’s no other way,” Scott said. “Just let me try. If it doesn’t work, we’ll try the other way, as much as I think it’s worse than what I have in mind.”
“Just a conversation,” O’Brien said.
“You can bet Pito has something we can use against him.”
Stiletto glanced between the two doubtful faces across from him.
Ali took a deep breath. “Okay.”
“Toby?”
“I can’t condone breaking the law.”
“Cart before horse, Toby. I’m just going to talk to the guy.”
“You and I both know it won’t be that simple,” the F.B.I. man said. He reached into his jacket for a folded sheet of paper and passed it across the table.
“What is this?” Stiletto took the paper.
“Some notes you’ll need.”
Stiletto raised an eyebrow.
“Always plan ahead,” O’Brien said.
Scott and Ali inched through stop-and-go traffic on the way back to her condo. He drove one of her company Lincoln Towncars.
“Traffic here is as bad as back home,” he said.
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you want me to go home, Ali?”
“You think that’s all I’m thinking?”
“I’d very much like to know what you’re thinking,” he said.
“I thought I had left all this behind.”
“What do you mean?”
“We dealt with murder, deception, backstabbing, shady deals, you name it, back at C.I.A. I wanted to get away from that, but it followed me here. And now you’re going to continue the cycle. It’s hard to process.”
Stiletto sped up as the traffic flow increased. He made it through one intersection before a red light stopped him again. He kept looking forward because he felt Ali’s eyes burning into him.
“Are you going to say anything?” she said.
> “What is there to say?” He looked at her. “You’re right. The sad part is, I don’t know what else to do except be a hammer that pounds a nail.”
“I don’t know if my father would have wanted this.”
“Would he want you to give up?”
“Maybe sell and find another way to beat Fairmont.”
“With what resources?”
She sighed.
“You called me for a reason, Ali. Deep down you know why. You even said so in your note. So tell me again. Knowing what you know now, knowing that this wasn’t random, what do you want me to do?”
The light turned green up ahead but traffic didn’t move.
Ali shut her eyes tight. Moments passed. Finally, she said:
“Kill them all.”
Stiletto didn’t exactly come prepared for night combat.
The stores on Market Street hadn’t closed yet, so he visited Macy’s amidst the tourist crowd and purchased a pair of Timberland Gore-Tex hiker boots. From another store across the street, he bought a Stafford Topcoat that stopped just above his knees and offered adequate coverage for his shoulder holster.
He returned to the Hyatt and slung the Colt Combat Commander under his arm, covering the rig with the topcoat. The X-ray proof bottom of his suitcase contained other tricks of the trade: a set of lock-picks, a pen flash, and a Buck pocket knife. The knife had a 3-inch stainless blade with a razor edge. He stowed the items in the topcoat.
The boots fit well. A final check in the mirror showed no tell-tale signs of the gun rig, and Scott left the hotel.
As he rode the elevator to the lobby, Stiletto knew he was stepping over the line. The line he promised General Ike that he would not cross. Now that he was on the edge of that line, there was nothing to do but go all the way, because somebody had to stick up for those who couldn’t defend themselves. Right now, that meant sticking up for Ali.
And that still counted despite their differences.
He visited first the high-rise office building where Ben Pito worked.
Stiletto tried to enter the basement garage, but an electronic gate and vigilant night guard dissuaded him. The guard stepped out of the shack.
“Can I help you?”
“Sorry, wrong turn.”
The guard nodded and Stiletto backed onto the street. He was on Main, and as he drove ahead to Howard, another car turned the corner, straddled both lanes, and stopped, blocking Stiletto’s progress. Scott slowed, his right hand reaching for the gun under his left arm. Another car pulling the same trick appeared behind him.
Another try, guys?
Stiletto threw the Lincoln into reverse, stomping on the gas. The vehicle screamed toward the car behind him. The driver and passenger emerged with automatic weapons as he closed the gap. Stiletto aimed the rear bumper at the driver. The distance closed some more. The driver bolted for the sidewalk as Stiletto flashed by, the passenger pivoting to fire a burst that tapped the Lincoln’s right fender but missed the tire. Stiletto swung around in a bootlegger turn.
The two enemy cars raced after him, their headlights bright in the rearview. A construction area occupied the corner lot on the other side of the intersection. Stiletto crashed the Lincoln through the security fence and stomped the brakes, skidding the car to a stop next to a portable building. He went EVA with the .45 in his right hand. The bright headlights of the other two cars shined on him as he moved for a concrete column. Automatic weapons fire crackled behind him. The shots split the air overhead. He made the column, rounds gouging into the concrete and spitting chips into his face.
Stiletto dropped and leaned out as two of the gunmen converged. The other two, still in their vehicle, sped off to circle the lot and enter from another side.
Stiletto fired once, missing his intended target. The pair scattered. One dove for cover but didn’t make it all the way, having to crawl the remaining distance. Stiletto fired twice. Both shots ripped through the man’s back and pinned him to the ground. The gunman stopped moving.
The other returned fire in two quick bursts. Stiletto fired one shot in response and ran deeper into the construction area. Cement walls, scaffolding, pipes and heavy equipment lay ahead.
The two shooters from the second car were making their way toward him from the opposite side of the site.
Footsteps scraped behind him.
Scott dropped into a crouch behind a lift. Part of the second floor was above him, making this the darkest part of the building. Street lights and passing cars cast moving shadows everywhere else. One of those shadows fired a test shot that went wide. Stiletto did not see the muzzle blast, and he could not see the gunman, so he held his fire.
The echo of the shot faded. A chilly wind blew through the construction area and touched the back of Stiletto’s neck. He cast quick glances from side-to-side but saw no hint of the shooters.
Another footstep scraped concrete.
A piece of debris scattered across the ground.
A whisper.
Stiletto dropped onto his belly and crawled across the dusty concrete floor to a half-wall. Somebody shouted, “Now!” and a trio of muzzle flashes lit the darkened area.
Stiletto fired twice, shifted aim, fired two more times. A scream and the gunfire stopped. Whoever Stiletto hit screamed again.
Scott reloaded the .45. A shot smacked the ground behind him. He dived behind another wall.
Shadows drifted across the ground in front of him.
Movement on the left. Stiletto swung that way, lining up the .45 on a gunman’s chest. The shooter raised his weapon as Stiletto’s finger closed on the hair-trigger.
The Colt roared and kicked three times. The slugs ripped open the shooter’s chest and sent him falling onto a puddle of his own guts.
Stiletto dropped and whirled to cover his backside. A flicker of movement. To the right! He fired once. The last shooter scooted from his meager over, letting off a string of covering fire. Scott hit the deck. He triggered another round that nicked the gunman’s shoe.
Stiletto rolled left, sprang to his feet, and ran across a short open space to a wall. The last gunman tracked him and tore a chunk of concrete out of the wall as Scott reached it. The gunman stayed exposed too long. Stiletto caught him low in the belly with one shot, his follow-up tearing off the top of the gunman’s head. The shooter’s body hit the ground hard.
Stiletto ran back through the site to where he’d left the Lincoln. No sirens yet but they’d come. He started the motor and powered out of there.
He steered straight for the Embarcadero and followed the road all the way to the Marina District, near the Golden Gate Bridge. According to O’Brien’s notes, that’s where Ben Pito lived. His heart still raced, his eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary, but as he saw only normal traffic on the road he decided he did not have any more shooters on his tail.
There had been no need to try and question any of the gunmen. He knew who sent them, and to use a crew of that size meant Fairmont and McCormick meant business. They wanted him dead yesterday.
He’d have to turn up the heat in return.
Chapter Eight
Stiletto parked curbside a few doors down from Pito’s house. And just in time, too. After a few minutes, the lawyer exited the two-story home and descended the steps to the white Audi in the driveway. A little older than the photo on the website and news articles, less hair, paunchier. The lawyer backed out of the driveway and onto the street. Stiletto followed. With traffic as thick as it was once they reached Lombard, Scott had no trouble staying concealed and keeping the Audi in view.
They traveled down Lombard to make a right turn on Leavenworth and after more stop-and-go reached UN Plaza where the lawyer parked and exited the car. With no other parking readily accessible, Stiletto drove by. He watched Pito stop in the center of the plaza near the statue of Bolivar on his horse, the horse rearing back with two hoofs in the air.
The Civic Center / UN Plaza contained some of San Francisco’s government and
cultural institutions, concrete buildings creating a box around the plaza itself. Across the street, City Hall, with its lit dome, the steeple on top of the dome scratching the night sky, oversaw the plaza.
Stiletto found parking in a small lot adjacent to City Hall. He raced across the street, weaving through the traffic, forcing some drivers to jam on their brakes. The honking horns didn’t get Pito’s attention. As Stiletto slipped into an alcove on the side of one of the buildings, he saw the lawyer continue to look around the plaza, examining passing faces, checking his watch repeatedly.
The lawyer wore gray slacks and a white shirt with a tweed sport coat. Hardly the kind of stepping out clothes that blended with the other pedestrians or the homeless around the plaza. Maybe it was laundry day. Stiletto decided the man’s wardrobe choices meant little in the grand scheme. Who was he waiting for? That’s what he wanted to know.
Cold wind cut through the plaza. Stiletto shivered despite the heavy Stafford Topcoat, which, he noticed, had a few nicks and tears from the gunfight. He shook his head. It was hard to have nice things in his line of work.
Presently a man in a black leather coat with long black hair stepped up behind Pito, startling the lawyer, who let the man know he was displeased with the surprise. The man in the leather jacket held a briefcase which he handed to the lawyer without comment. Stiletto heard Pito say this sort of thing wasn’t even supposed to be part of his duties, but the other man didn’t acknowledge the complaint. He turned and walked back the way he came, leaving Pito by the statue with the briefcase. Stiletto failed to catch a glimpse of the man’s face. He’d managed to avoid any splash of light. Very good tradecraft, whoever he was.
Stiletto started across the plaza, heading for Pito’s Audi, while the lawyer gathered his wits and started back toward the car on his own. Stiletto stopped to pretend to lace up his right boot; when the lawyer drew abreast, he rose with the .45 in his right hand. He jammed the gun into Pito’s belly.
“One word and I’ll kill you.”
Pito stared white-faced at Stiletto.
“Get in.”
