La Donna Detroit

by Jon A. Jackson

  “Great! But what about the—” He gestured at the monitors.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Humphrey said. “You go around, check everything out, and … oh yeah, be sure the dogs are in. It could get kinda stuffy down there, if we’re all puffing away on cigars, and I wanta leave the passageway open to the yard, get a little fresh air. I’ll open up the yard door and you can come down that way. And don’t say nothing to the other guys, eh? I don’t want anybody thinking I’m favoring one guy over another, you see what I mean? The patrol guys can hang in the relief room, maybe they’ll get up their own game. Who knows? The gate man can handle things. Anyways, you can keep an eye on the monitors down there. Oh, and one more thing—I told these guys no guns down there, so don’t bring your piece.”

  “Won’t that look kind of odd?” Nicolette said. “I mean, I’d have to leave it in the safe, in the relief room.”

  Humphrey thought for a moment, as if stumped, then said, “Tell you what. I’m glad you’re careful. I’m careful, too. Maybe it would be better if your gun was handy. Let me have it. I’ll stash it in this cigar box.” He opened the box and scooped out the cigars, tossing them onto the desk. “I’ll carry this box down there. You’ll see it on the counter. Anything crazy happens, you can grab it. Okay?”

  “What if someone wants a cigar, opens the box?”

  “There’s a couple boxes down there already. I’ll make sure they’re open. They’ll be handy. Nobody’ll bother this one. They won’t even notice. It’ll be where you can see it.”

  So that was settled. The gun fit nicely into the box. John said he’d start his rounds right away and he should be able to join them in fifteen minutes or so, when he got the dogs and the patrols settled in the security quarters. Humphrey told him to take his time. He went to collect Matty and they went downstairs in the conventional way. Matty was very impressed with the security arrangements.

  Mongelo greeted Matty like a long-lost friend. He was clearly pleased to see a fresh face. He gave him an embrace that clearly included a weapons check.

  Matty smiled, confidently. “I can’t believe how skinny you are, Monge,” he said. Then, remembering that the man had been ill, he said, “You feelin’ all right?”

  Mongelo frowned. “I feel great. How ’bout you?”

  They popped open a couple of Stroh’s and sat talking while Humphrey went to the desk to call for refreshments. “Guys,” he called over his shoulder, “I gotta go up to get the pizza. The help has already gone home. Help yourselves to more beer, or whatever. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  He went upstairs quickly. John was out. He could see him on the various monitors, making his rounds, getting the dogs in. He went to Helen’s room. “You all set?” he asked her.

  “I’m staying,” she said.

  Humphrey shook his head.

  “I can do it,” she said. “You know I can do it.”

  Humphrey looked at her. “Got your Hatchet Puss on,” he said. But it was too late. He hadn’t told her all his plans; they didn’t include her. Still, he owed her something. “I know you jumped in the car and blasted Carmine,” he said. “You can do it. But you don’t want to. You don’t want this racket.”

  “Maybe I changed my mind,” she said.

  “Too late, babe. Get outta here.”

  She saw how it was. “I’ll be at Mama’s, if anything goes wrong.”

  He nodded. “Go to Soke. You gotta be away from here. You gotta establish that. Make sure somebody else is there, as a witness.”

  She kissed him. “You’re something else, Unca Umby.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He was embarrassed now. “I’ll miss you baby. But … what the hell. This is the way to go. You take care of yourself.”

  “Say hi to Joe,” she said.

  “You say hi yourself,” he replied. “You’ll see him soon enough. Listen, I gotta go. I’m choking up, here.” He kissed her again and they went out together.

  The last she saw of him, before she went out the door, he was picking up a huge tray filled with pizzas. He had tucked a box of LaDonnas under his arm, saying, “The guys’ll like these.”

  * * *

  Roman Yakovich had made up his mind. Mrs. Sid had told him that Helen was coming over. She had invited some of her lady friends. They were going to have a good, old-fashioned hen party. She had cooked innumerable little goodies, flancate, walnut povitica, priganica. She prepared a selection on a plate for Roman and told him to get lost. “Go watch your hockey game,” she said.

  From his upstairs window, Roman watched Helen and the women arrive. When they were starting to laugh and gabble downstairs, he crept out the back way and drove to DiEbola’s house. What he had seen in recent weeks had troubled him greatly. DiEbola was making a fool of himself over Helen. Roman had seen this sort of thing before. A rich and powerful older man can have his way with many a young woman, but not with the Little Angel. He would be polite; he would be respectful; but Mr. DiEbola must know that Little Helen was not one of these silly girls that he could tamper with.

  At the gate the guard would not let Roman in. He recognized him, all right, and he knew that Roman was an old friend of Mr. DiEbola’s, but the boss was entertaining guests. No, he would not call the house. Mr. DiEbola had personally given him strict orders: no one was to be let in. No one. Sorry.

  The guard stood within the ornamented steel gates, wisely out of arm’s reach. Roman stalled, a hulking bundle of a man with long arms stuffed into the sleeves of his suit coat like sausages. He stared around the area, looking toward the distant house, which was not visible from here. He seemed lost. Finally, the older man said, “He got women in there?”

  The young guard sneered. “Sure, he’s got women. Miz Helen went out for the night, so he ordered in a buncha whores. He’s having a fuckin’ orgy. Now get lost, old-timer.” He stood and watched until Roman got back in his car and drove away. Then he went back into the guard booth, to his girlie magazine.

  Roman drove several blocks away, then stopped when he came to a small stone bridge over a canal. He parked the car and walked back to the canal, then followed a path alongside it toward the lake. Several large estates had boathouses on the canal, he saw. These estates, like DiEbola’s, were well fenced, and the boathouses effectively blocked anyone from walking farther. But a lovely little skiff was tied up to the piling of one of the houses. He would have to wade in the dark water to get to it, and he had no idea how deep it was, but he was determined.

  The water was well over his waist. And it was cold. But Roman was not daunted. He waded to the boat and nearly swamped it crawling in, his gun in his hand, to keep it dry. It was a huge cannon, a .44 magnum revolver. He set it on the thwart before him and began to row out toward the lake.

  It took him the better part of an hour to find the slip at DiEbola’s. He had noticed that the dogs were not out, so he didn’t worry about them, and he had no notion of patrols anyway, so that didn’t concern him. Nonetheless, he was quiet about rowing up to DiEbola’s sleek, low-slung cruiser and tying up. He clambered onto the dock and then walked across the lawn.

  What luck! Some kind of cellar door was open, light spilling out and illuminating a faint haze that rose from the opening. It was cigar smoke; Roman smelled it. The opening was not attached to the big house, but from the voices—among them DiEbola’s—he realized that he had found his man.

  Humphrey glanced at the clock on the desk. It was a glowing red digital-readout device. It was 9:48, time to start the ball rolling. In fact, the ball had been rolling for some time. He had initiated a series of sly digs at Matty, mentioning the late Rossamani, and as he had expected, Mongelo had taken it up. Unlike Humphrey, Mongelo was wont to be less than subtle.

  “That fuckin’ Rossie, what a prick,” Mongelo said, “and he was fuckin’ queer, too. Gimme two fuckin’ cards, you little chiseler.”

  Matty was dealing. He looked at Humphrey nervously. Humphrey smiled and nodded. Matty dealt. “Rossie wasn’t queer,” Matty mutte
red.

  Mongelo looked at his cards and threw them down with disgust. “Jeeziss, what a shit hand. You deal like you fuck, you little prick. Sure, Rossie was queer. Maybe you are too. You deal like a fuckin’ pansy.” He sat back and stared, daring Matty to respond.

  Before Matty could say anything, Humphrey showed three jacks, whereupon John triumphantly slapped down a full house, aces and eights. It was a big pot and John crowed, “Come to me you sweet things” as he raked it in.

  “Whatta you so happy about?” Mongelo demanded of him.

  John shrugged, unfazed, and nodded toward his full house. “If you can’t beat it, you gotta eat it,” he said with a laugh.

  “Now you’re callin’ me a fuckin’ pansy,” Mongelo challenged him.

  Humphrey put a hand on his shoulder, rising. “Take it easy, Monge. It’s just cards. I gotta piss. You keep an eye on these crooks, make sure they don’t steal anything.” Behind Mongelo’s back, when John was stacking his chips, he made a curt gesture with his head toward the bathroom, to Matty. When he returned a moment later, he nodded again and was pleased to see Matty got the message.

  “My turn,” Matty said, getting up to go to the bathroom. He would find the Glock there. Humphrey was all but certain that he would not check the magazine; that would make too much noise.

  “Don’t be playing with your dick in there,” Mongelo bellowed after him. “You’ll get the cards all sticky.”

  “Up yours,” Matty retorted and shut the door.

  John laughed and picked up the cards to shuffle. Humphrey nudged Mongelo’s leg under the table. That was the first sign. Mongelo let his hand drop to his knee and then advanced it slightly under the hanging edge of the green felt table cover. He would be able to grasp the grip of the .38 taped there.

  There were two bullets in this gun. Humphrey had given this number a good deal of thought. Would two be enough? Or too many? He figured that Mongelo would shoot Matty first. Then he’d try to shoot Nicolette, assuming that he actually hit Matty with his first shot. If he didn’t hit him, he would surely fire again. Then he’d try to shoot Nicolette.

  Or, Humphrey thought, he’ll try to shoot me. Not likely. Mongelo trusted him, he was into the game.

  What would happen next, however, couldn’t really be predicted. Humphrey had read somewhere, maybe in Machiavelli, that after the first shot all battle plans change. But they wouldn’t change much, of that he was confident. Nicolette had only one bullet.

  Matty came out of the bathroom. He looked more assured. He had found the Glock. Humphrey didn’t need to look at his face: he could see the bulge in his pocket. The idiot had put the gun in his pocket! Of course; he had removed his suit jacket. He had no other good place to put it, except in his waistband, under his shirt, and then he wouldn’t be able to get at it easily. So he had his hand in his pocket, as if to mask the presence of the gun.

  Nicolette didn’t notice. He was shuffling cards. But Mongelo noticed. His eyes flickered toward Humphrey, who smiled. So this was it. The curtain was going up. Humphrey rose immediately and went around Mongelo toward the desk-counter, where the clock and the monitors were, the cigar box—and the Bushmaster he’d stashed last night. He didn’t even look at the monitor, which would have shown him Roman Yakovich, stealthily descending the steps from the lawn.

  “You son of a bitch!” Mongelo roared. He jumped up, knocking the table away, holding the .38.

  Matty yanked the Glock out of his pocket, but he never got a chance to fire. Mongelo’s bullet hit him in the chest, knocking him backward. The din of the shot was shocking to the ears, but Humphrey didn’t notice. He scrambled for the Bushmaster, ready to hand in a desk drawer. In the same moment he slid the cigar box down the counter, toward Nicolette, who was reaching for it when Mongelo’s second shot struck him in the back.

  Nicolette fell to the floor but managed to carry the cigar box down with him. He fished out the pistol. He almost pulled the trigger on Mongelo, but he heard the click of Mongelo’s empty gun just in time. Mongelo stared down at the gun in disbelief, then at Nicolette.

  Nicolette said, “Drop it.”

  Humphrey said, “Shoot!” He pointed at Mongelo.

  Both men turned to look at Humphrey. Then Roman’s arm came through the door and he shot Mongelo. The .44 made a much bigger racket than the .38 had. Mongelo was flung backward, crashing into the treadmill.

  Nicolette fired at Roman, but he had a very poor angle and Roman was all but hidden in the door opening. The bullet ricocheted off the concrete wall and zinged around the room like an atomic wasp. Roman pumped two shots into the security man. The blasts tossed the body back under the counter.

  The smoke lay in dense reefs—cigars and gunfire. Roman was only dimly visible to Humphrey, who considered blowing him away with the Bushmaster. Instead, he suddenly realized he’d been hit himself. He didn’t feel any pain, not exactly, but a shock. It must have been the ricochet. The bullet would have been badly deformed, doubtless fragmented. It had hit him in the right side, in the ribs, about three inches below his right breast. He wasn’t sure if it had penetrated deeply, but there was blood.

  “Jesus!” he cried, “I’m fuckin’ hit!”

  Roman lumbered forward hesitantly, still holding the .44 before him.

  “Watch whatcher doin’ with that thing,” Humphrey barked. “Here, help me. I feel a little woozy.” He had his right arm clamped against his side. He slid down to the floor, sitting in a puddle of spilled beer. “This ain’t workin’,” he said.

  Roman peered through the smoke, waving the gun as if to clear the haze.

  Humphrey was having trouble staying conscious. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he said.

  Roman spoke, almost casually: “I come to talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  “Liddle Helen. You gotta leave her alone.” Roman was stern, reproving.

  “I am leaving her alone,” Humphrey said. “I’m leaving everybody alone. What do you think all this is about?” He gestured weakly with his left hand, at the bodies. “I’m leaving town. But I need a little help.”

  Roman couldn’t take it in. Who could? “Leaving?” he said. “For good?”

  “For good or bad,” Humphrey said. “Give me a hand, here.”

  Roman jammed the .44 into his holster and stooped to hoist Humphrey to his feet. He helped him to the door, practically carrying him. But Humphrey stopped at the passageway.

  “No,” he said, “we gotta make it look right.” He leaned against the doorjamb and directed Roman to drag Nicolette’s body up the passageway and outside. Humphrey followed. He felt better in the fresh air. He looked around. Nothing. No sounds. No lights. No sign that anyone had heard a thing. He had been certain that they wouldn’t.

  “Can you get him to the boat?” Humphrey asked. Roman nodded and hoisted the body onto his shoulder. Humphrey waited. He tried to examine the wound, but it was too awkward, too dark. Nonetheless, he felt reassured. He could breathe all right. He was afraid of shock, but he wasn’t bleeding too badly. He told himself he’d be all right.

  When Roman returned they went back downstairs. Humphrey ignored the sprawled bodies, for the moment. He scanned the monitors. There was no activity. The man on the gate was reading a magazine. Nothing was stirring.

  Not even a mouse, he thought, or a rat.

  He had a few tasks for Roman, such as smashing quart canning jars filled with gasoline on the floor, especially around Mongelo. He had a nice little bomb, packed into a cigar box. He managed to kneel and clasp Mongelo’s hands around it.

  What next? He glanced around, picked up Nicolette’s service revolver, and stuck it in his pocket. He wiped the Bushmaster and put it into Matty’s right hand and closed the fingers, then tugged his left hand over to grasp the receiver, then let the gun fall away.

  A few other touches … time to go. Roman helped him up the passageway, up the steps to the lawn, and let him sit. Then at Humphrey’s direction he went back down the passa
geway with a Molotov cocktail. A moment later, there was a muffled whump!

  A moment after that, smoke roared out of the passageway, followed by a coughing Roman. The bomb had gone off quicker than he’d expected. Roman was almost clear of the passageway, but the blast actually knocked him down. He got up and scrambled out onto the lawn. Together they hobbled to the slip.

  Humphrey struggled aboard while Roman cast off the lines to the cruiser, then jumped down into the cockpit, treading on the body of Nicolette. Humphrey had started the engine and they pulled away. Flames billowed out of the hole in the ground, lighting up the night. Humphrey heard a splintering and a crushing noise.

  “What the fuck is that?” he yelled.

  “The liddle boat,” Roman said.

  They left the wreckage sinking at the end of its painter at the slip and roared out into the lake. Fifteen minutes later, they idled up next to Joe’s boat.

  “What happened?” Joe called out. He jumped into their boat to help. He and Roman got Humphrey into the other boat.

  “I fucked up,” Humphrey said. “Get my bag. Here.” He handed Joe another jar of gasoline. “Break that in the boat.”

  Joe did as instructed and, at the last moment, noticed another box of LaDonnas. He tossed it to Humphrey. “Souvenir,” he called. Then he came aboard. From ten feet away, he tossed another bomb into the cockpit of the Kiddle-Dee-Divey. This bomb took longer to react to the heat. The burning boat was visible for half a mile, then came the explosion, and shortly the flame snuffed out.

  Humphrey thanked Roman for his help. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” he said. “I don’t know what I was thinking about. I should’ve known something would go haywire. That goddamn ricochet! But you came along and saved my ass.”

  Joe examined the wound. “Well, it’s in you,” he said. “I can’t tell how deep, or how much bullet is left. But that’s a nasty situation. You have to have a doctor.”