“What is it? Is there something in there?”
The dog released one last muffled bark and walked forward, disappearing through the solid wood door.
Koda went to the door and opened it, searching the floor for any sign of the dog, but the dog was gone. Then Koda looked up and saw what he thought was Dane’s Syracuse Orangemen lacrosse jersey, hanging in a clear plastic bag. But when he saw the big number seven on the front, he realized it was his old jersey, not Dane’s. In college, Koda had worn number seven and Dane had worn number eight.
Hanging next to the jersey was Koda’s handcrafted, hickory lacrosse stick.
After the last game of the season their senior year, Koda had tossed both in the locker room garbage can.
“What are you doing?” Dane had asked in disbelief.
“What does it look like?” Koda responded. “Besides, when are we ever going to play lacrosse again?”
It was funny how many times Koda tossed away things with sentimental value just because he had enough money to replace them if he ever wanted.
“I remember the day Dane brought those home,” Paul Luckner said from the end of the darkened hallway. “Dane said you’d tossed them out, but he thought you would regret it. So he had them professionally cleaned and put them in the closet. I imagine he was waiting for the right time to give them back to you, but—”
“Did Dane have a dog?” Koda asked.
Paul smiled and gave a little laugh. “Ah, so you met Duffy.”
“He was on the foot of the bed,” Koda said.
“And he led you to the closet?” Paul asked.
Koda nodded.
“Interesting,” Paul said. “The fact that you saw Duffy means two things. First, you may be more receptive to spirits than you realize, Koda, which is probably how you ended up seeing the girl in the mirror.”
“And the other thing?” Koda asked.
“It means Dane’s spirit is here, in the house,” Paul said. “Or at least it was.”
“How do you know that? I didn’t see Dane, only the dog.”
“True,” Paul said. “But Duffy was Dane’s dog, and the only time Duffy appears is when Dane is here. Besides, who do you think told Duffy to take you to the closet? Dogs are smart, but not that smart.”
“Robyn and I were wondering where Dane is buried,” Koda said. “No one mentioned it.”
“That’s because we didn’t want people to know,” Paul said.
“Will you tell me?”
“Sure, as long as you promise to keep it under your hat,” Paul said. “We had Dane cremated and buried his ashes in the Lily Dale Pet Cemetery.”
“The pet cemetery? Why?
“When Duffy died, Dane was crushed—totally, completely inconsolable. After a few days, Ingrid and I asked him if he wanted to go out to the pet cemetery and bury Duffy with us. And do you know what Dane said? He said he would go, but only if we promised to bury him next to Duffy someday when he died. I certainly never thought I would need to worry about keeping the promise,” Paul said as he wiped the corner of his eyes. “But, we told him we would. So we did.”
Chapter Seven
Crimson Cove, Oregon
October 29, 1937
In the end, all the spending—even the purchase of the Mercedes Roadster—could not solve the real problem. Ulrich was going stir crazy.
He needed fun. He needed action. Ulrich desperately needed to get out.
But there was nowhere to go blow off steam in Crimson Cove, unless your idea of a good time was sitting at the edge of the cliffs and contemplating the secrets of the universe.
Gone were the great restaurants of Chicago, missing were the theaters and bars and clubs of New York. More than anything, Ulrich wanted to gamble.
There must be a backroom card game going on somewhere, Ulrich thought. If not, perhaps he could start one?
Ulrich had heard people speak about the perils of becoming a compulsive gambler; fortunately, that was not the case with him. He enjoyed gambling, but he was always able to set a limit and stick to it, cutting his losses and knowing when it was time to walk away from the table.
Most of the time, at least.
But now, after more than a year in hiding, doing back-breaking chores and hating every minute of it, Ulrich was going mad. And, once again, the Spilatro’s money began burning a hole in his pocket.
What’s the point in having it if you can’t spend it? Ulrich found himself thinking more and more. Besides, it was his money to do with what he wanted.
He’d stolen it, fair and square.
It was a few minutes after nine o’clock at night and Ulrich could tell from the sound of Onyx’s breathing that she had fallen asleep. He grabbed his billfold and silently pocketed the keys to the Mercedes Benz, then tip-toed from the bedroom of the caretaker’s house.
Once outside, Ulrich lifted his hand and held it less than a foot from his face and could see nothing. If not for the stars disappearing and reappearing as he moved it back and forth, it was as if his hand wasn’t even there.
When there was no moon, the blackness of the cove could swallow you whole—especially when the lighthouse was unlit. Like it was again tonight.
Though it was part of Ulrich’s responsibility to ensure the oil lamp in the lighthouse burned constantly, he’d allowed it to go dark three nights in a row. So what if someone complained? What could they do, take the lighthouse from him? Ulrich was so exhausted caring for the place he no longer cared.
Ulrich worked his way through the darkness, hands outstretched before him until they touched the metal fender of the Mercedes Roadster. He knew Onyx would hear the engine starting, but as with lighting the lamp, he no longer cared.
He needed to get out for a night of fun.
By the time Ulrich arrived in town it was already past ten, and even on a Friday night, Crimson Cove’s sidewalks had been rolled up for the night. The only place that was still open was a diner called ATROS’ PLACE. So, with his chances of finding a card game fading fast, Ulrich pulled the Benz into the lot. With any luck they had a bar.
Ulrich entered the restaurant and found the place was fairly busy, with two waitresses working several tables each. Since he was alone, Ulrich took a stool at the counter and buried his nose in a menu.
A waitress walked up. “What can I get you, honey?”
“I’ll have the meatloaf and a piece of apple pie with a slice of cheddar on top,” Ulrich said, his nose still buried in the menu.”
“With cheddar on top?” the waitress asked.
“Yes, the way they do it in Boston,” Ulrich said.
“Ulrich?”
Ulrich froze. No, it couldn’t be. Ulrich slowly closed the menu and looked up at the waitress.
Jesus Christ, it was Claudia Spilatro.
“My God, baby!” Claudia shrieked. “You came for me! Ulrich, you came for us!”
Ulrich’s mouth hung open, but he found himself unable to speak as Claudia ran around the counter and threw her arms around him, and kissed him hard on the mouth.
“Claudia?” was all Ulrich could muster.
“Wait! Wait!” Claudia shrieked and then turned and ran off through a swinging door that led to the kitchen.
What in the hell had just happened? All he’d done was stop for a meal and, thirty seconds later, everything had gone to hell in a handbasket.
And the next thirty seconds weren’t much better.
The kitchen door swung back open and Claudia reappeared with a child in her arms. “Phil, this is your daddy!”
Ulrich stared at the baby, unable to find words.
“He’s big for sixteen months, don’t you think?” Claudia asked as she thrust the boy into Ulrich’s arms. Ulrich took the child, his mouth opening but no sound emerged.
“Can you say, ‘daddy’?” Claudia asked.
Ulrich didn’t know if she was asking the kid or him.
Ulrich and Claudia sat in a booth in the empty restaurant with Phil curled up, sound
asleep, the boy’s head in her lap. Now, from inside the restaurant, Ulrich could see only the letters A-T-R-O-S in the neon sign were working—the letters S-P-I-L were dark and dusty.
“Your sign is broken,” Ulrich muttered.
“Speaking of broken,” Claudia said, “I need to ask you something, and don’t lie to me. Did you break Flavio’s neck at The Night Owl?”
“No,” Ulrich said quickly. “No, he was drunk. He started chasing me and fell down the stairs. I never touched him, I swear.”
“Did you steal Daddy’s money?”
“No, of course not!”
“Then why was Flavio chasing you?” Claudia asked.
“Okay, yes, I stole the money,” Ulrich said. “But I didn’t know it belonged to your father. That I will swear to.”
“How did you know the money was kept in the floor safe?” Claudia asked.
“I saw you put it there when you were closing,” Ulrich admitted.
“Did you come to The Night Owl to run away with me?” Claudia asked hopefully.
“Yes, exactly,” Ulrich said.
“So why didn’t you?” Claudia asked.
Ulrich did not have an answer, so he said nothing.
“I see,” Claudia said. “So, who hit my brother over the head with a bottle in San Francisco?”
“Who?”
“My brother, Ulrich,” Claudia said. “Fabrizio?”
“That wasn’t me!” Ulrich said. “I swear.”
“And what about my other brother Fortunato?” Claudia asked. “Fortunato went missing the same night, and no one has heard from him since. My father is very concerned.”
“I have no idea,” Ulrich said. With any luck she had no idea about the car going off the bridge.
“A witness said someone in a blue Chrysler forced a car off the bridge,” Claudia said. “Do you know anything about that?”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” Ulrich said. “They were trying to push us off the bridge!”
“So you do know what happened,” Claudia said.
“Okay, yes, I do.”
“Do you lie about everything, Ulrich?”
Not about everything, Ulrich thought. “No, I don’t lie. You are simply misunderstanding.”
“Okay, then tell me this—and say it in a way I will understand,” Claudia said. “How did you find Phil and me?”
“It was the photo of the lighthouse,” Ulrich said. “You showed it to me our first night together and—”
“You took my photo?” Claudia asked. Until that moment, she’d thought she’d simply left the photo behind in the room. “And you came here. Why?”
“You said this was a great place to disappear, so we figured…”
Ulrich stopped himself midsentence, instantly realizing his mistake. It was already too late. He’d said we.
“Are you saying Onyx is still alive?” Claudia said.
“She wouldn’t die!” Ulrich squealed. “I tried. I did everything I could. What do you want from me?”
“I want you to prove your love, Ulrich,” Claudia said. “And the best way to do that is finish the job and kill her. I don’t care what you have to do—I want the bitch dead. And then we can all be together, finally. Want another slice of pie?”
Chapter Eight
Wheeling, Illinois
November 29, 1962
“Remember me?” Mary Ann said, refusing to move out of Phil’s way. “Giuseppe’s? Marquette University? The night you got me drunk and screwed me in the back seat of your Bel Air?”
“You got the wrong guy, sugar tits,” Phil Spilatro said.
“I have a kid,” Mary Ann said. “That means you have a kid—a kid you’ve never paid a dime to support.”
“That’s what you want? Money?” Phil peeled a hundred-dollar bill from a wad of cash, crunched the bill into a ball and threw it in Mary Ann’s face. “There, get the kid a toy and screw yourself with the change.”
A tear started to run down Mary Ann’s cheek and Declan pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. Declan turned to Phil. “Apologize to the lady.”
“Yeah? Or what?” Phil said.
“Or I’m going to kick your ass, right here in front of everyone,” Declan said.
Phil peeled a second hundred-dollar bill from his wad and stuffed it in the pocket of Declan’s suit coat. “That should cover the handkerchief,” Phil said. “Now, why don’t you get your Leprechaun-loving ass backstage and tell someone to send the dancing jungle bunny out here?”
Oh, Christ, Fat Sal thought.
Phil had done it now, Tommy thought.
This is going to be interesting, Chuckie Bags thought.
What none of them knew was that, as loyal as Declan was to Frank Sinatra, he had an even greater sense of devotion to Sammy Davis Jr., who—despite his success, wealth, and fame—had suffered years of racial bigotry beyond anything most people could tolerate.
And Declan had been there to witness much of it, including a year earlier when Sammy was banned from performing at John F. Kennedy’s inauguration because of Sammy’s marriage to Swedish actress May Britt.
A white woman.
After a series of death threats, Declan found himself spending the majority of his time protecting Sammy rather than Frank, witnessing some of the most hate-filled racial slurs imaginable.
Declan had no problem taking Phil Spilatro’s slurs toward his Irish heritage, but the cruelty shown to the waitress, Mary Ann—and now to Sammy Davis Jr.—was inexcusable.
Declan threw a right punch that Milwaukee Phil never saw coming, catching the punk in the middle of his solar plexus. When Phil lurched forward, doubled over in pain, Declan placed his left hand on the back of his head and pushed it down.
Phil struggled to catch his breath, bent over with the wind completely knocked out of him. But Declan wasn’t finished.
A second later, Declan’s right knee came up—directly in the middle of Phil’s face, crushing his nose back into his head and sending him flying backward onto the center of the table—lying spread eagle on the table covered in blood.
Tommy turned to Declan. “Maybe we should catch up later.”
It came as no surprise that Mary Ann Mungehr was immediately fired due to the fiasco at Fat Sal’s table. She was, after all, the one who started it.
That Declan was fired, too, surprised everyone.
Except maybe Declan.
This wasn’t the first time Declan’s temper had gotten the best of him, nor was Phil Spilatro the first guy Declan had pummeled in public.
To make matters worse, Sinatra had warned his crew to take things down a notch to avoid unwanted publicity—especially publicity that might be connected in any way with the mob.
Declan had to go.
Which is how Declan found himself sitting at a bus stop two blocks from the Villa Venice—with Mary Ann Mungehr. “Sorry for getting you involved in my mess,” Mary Ann said.
“Not your fault,” Declan said. “I was going to end up beating the shit out of that guy even if you hadn’t shown up. He had it coming.”
Mary Ann said nothing.
“How did you end up with that creep?” Declan asked.
“The way all young girls end up with creepy guys,” Mary Ann said. “I snuck out one night with a friend, drove to a college bar for a night of fun—next thing I know, I’m putting my bra back on.”
Now it was Declan’s turn to stay silent.
“Funny thing is the girl I went with? She got pregnant the same night, only the guy who knocked her up turned out to be from a wealthy family. Her guy did the honorable thing and married her, now they live in a big house and…”
Mary Ann’s tears began to flow again. Reflexively, Declan reached in his pocket for his handkerchief, finding the hundred-dollar bill instead. “I don’t have a handkerchief, but here, take this,” Declan said, holding the bill out to Mary Ann.
Mary Ann shook her head. “I don’t want his filthy mob money. You can keep i
t.”
Declan liked that Mary Ann refused the money, especially since he knew she probably needed it. She had standards, unlike most of the women he’d encountered lately, throwing themselves at Frankie and Sammy and Dino. And when they couldn’t score with one of the stars, they’d settle for a member of the entourage—which summed up the extent of Declan’s dating life for the past ten years.
But Mary Ann was different. There was something about her Declan felt instantly drawn to. And she was damn attractive, which made it even easier.
“How do you know those guys, anyway?” Mary Ann asked.
“I don’t,” Declan said. “I only know the one guy, Tommy Bilazzo. We grew up in an orphanage together, watched each other’s backs. Tommy is more than a friend. He’s a brother. When Pearl Harbor happened, I wanted to enlist, but Tommy wouldn’t come with me. He’s not the killing kind.”
“It must have been a relief running into him,” Mary Ann said.
Declan nodded. He’d thought about Tommy every day for the past twenty years. Relief was an understatement.
“What about you?” Mary Ann asked. “Are you the killing kind?”
“In war you have to be,” Declan said, avoiding the question directly. “If you’re not, you don’t come back. But Tommy? One time he got on me because I’d killed a spider. A spider, can you imagine? No, a kid like Tommy could never have made it in the military.”
Mary Ann found herself drawn to Declan.
“Is there a bus that even comes through here this time of night?” Declan asked, changing the subject.
“I have no idea,” Mary Ann said. “My car is in the lot about a block that way. I only walked over here to talk to you.”
They both laughed—not the forced laugh people do when they want to look relaxed—but the easy kind of laugh that comes naturally between two people who are enjoying a moment together, simply being themselves.
“I could drop you somewhere, if you want.” Mary Ann said.
“That’s a nice offer, but I couldn’t begin to tell you where to drop me. I haven’t thought that far ahead,” Declan said.
Onyx Webb: Book Three Page 4
