The Vig dh-2

by John T Lescroart

  He nodded.

  "So check everything-as if you wouldn't anyway."

  "And meanwhile what if Louis Baker kills Diz?"

  Flo stopped rubbing. "Ah," she said. "Getting to it."

  "Right. You know me, Flo. I never think of this black, white bullshit. Maybe I should've arrested Baker already. Maybe I'm just dragging my heels 'cause he's black and I'm-'

  "Abe, you've arrested tons of black people."

  "Yeah, but usually, I hope, with a little evidence."

  "And you don't have any evidence here? Then that's it, not race."

  He shook his head. "Maybe that's why I had to come here. I want to get that son of a bitch off the street and I got motive to burn, attitude like you wouldn't believe and no hard evidence at all."

  Flo was silent a moment. Then, quietly, "And you're not sure he's a son of a bitch?"

  "No, I'm pretty sure he's that. I'm just not certain he committed this particular murder. But I don't know if I want to risk Hardy's life on it one way or the other."

  Glitsky's wife stood up again and came around in front of him, pulling his head into her chest. "Is there anybody else who worries about doing the right thing as much as you do?"

  Glitsky grunted. "I should just bring him in, shouldn't I?"

  She kept him hugged close. "Maybe a lot of people would."

  He pulled away and looked up at her. "I can't, Flo."

  "I know," she said. Stepping back now, businesslike. "So given that, what do you see here?"

  "What I want to see," he corrected her, "is… okay, the door maybe forced, but some sign of cat and mouse, Ingraham trying to get away. I mean, look, he's sitting here thinking Baker is going to come and kill him. Then, lo and behold, Baker shows. What would you do?"

  "The woman was naked. He was on the bed. Could be they weren't paying attention."

  Abe shook his head. "Not if he thought someone was going to come and try to kill him. Nobody pays that little attention."

  She smiled. "You have."

  But he wasn't playing. "Not in a situation like that, I wouldn't."

  "How about this?" Flo asked. "The whole night before, he's been up worrying about it. He lies down for a nap. The woman is in the shower. Baker knocks open the door, but it's more a bump than any big noise. Ingraham rolls over but doesn't wake up. The woman goes on with her shower, thinking the barge just moved against a piling or something."

  "Okay," Abe said, "okay…"

  "So Baker comes in and shoots Ingraham in bed. No doubt now the woman hears the shot and comes running out. Bam, bam, bam. Baker runs, knocking over the lamp on the way out in the dark. Ingraham, it turns out, isn't dead yet. He staggers out of bed and goes outside and over the side."

  Abe sighed. "To be washed away by the tide?"

  "Maybe."

  "Why the neck brace?"

  "I don't know."

  "What about the gun in the canal?"

  Flo had no answer. Abe put his hands in his pocket and walked back to the open door. The moon was higher, its harvest quality gone. Now it was a bright silver coin above the bridge. Flo's was a theory he at least hadn't independently arrived at, and it was as plausible, or implausible, as any of the ten he'd come up with. And what really happened might be one of the ten, or Flo's, or something else altogether. Lots of people were good at theories. What made a good cop was finding one with evidence to back it up or-more-finding evidence and going from there.

  Flo came up behind him, putting her arms around him. "How 'bout dinner?" she asked.

  "It's all bass ackwards," he said. "I don't see anything I hoped to find here."

  Flo turned him around and put her hands up to his face, closing his eyes with her thumbs. "Just set it in that brain of yours, what you see and feel now, and it'll click in when you need it, if you need it."

  He felt her up against him and closed his arms around her. "Like you do when I need you."

  "Yep," she said, "just like that."

  Chapter Nine

  " ^ "

  Sometimes when Johnny LaGuardia was pounding into her, like now, Doreen Biaggi made herself think about the way it had started between them, when she had thought he was such a nice sweet man.

  She had been walking out of Molinari's with some deli instead of a real dinner because she didn't have much money, when some of the young North Beach neighborhood boys started following her, teasing her as they had always teased "the Nose." Doreen keeping her head down, trying to walk faster, crying to herself. She was always nice to people. Why did they have to pick on her?

  "What you got there, Noseen, some nose slaw? Maybe some nosadella?"

  Ha. Ha. Ha. Snatching at her clothes, making honking noises, grabbing at her package of deli food.

  And then there was this big man, not too old, chasing them away, walking her home. Johnny.

  She looked over her shoulder at him, eyes closed now, rocking back and forth, taking his time…

  Embarrassed at her tears, at her looks, she wanted to just thank him and go upstairs to her studio apartment. But he was so caring, or seemed so then. Brushing away the tears with a gentle smudge of his thumb. Taking her out to Little Joe's-now 'their' place-to cheer her up.

  Opening up to him. Telling him that she hated herself, her big schnozzola, everything. And him saying (lying, but nice) it wasn't so bad, but if she hated it why didn't she just get a nose job?

  But where was a clerk at City Lights bookstore going to get the money for a nose job? It had been nothing but scrape scrape since graduation from high school-three years now-and it was enough of a struggle paying rent, eating, wearing decent clothes. And so long as she looked this way she'd never be able to get out of where she was, going nowhere. It was a catch-22…

  He was speeding up now, and she got into it a little, leaning back into it, maybe hurry him along. She reached back between her legs and ran her fingernails along the bottom of his scrotum and he made that sound that meant it wouldn't be too long now…

  He had made it sound so easy. His friend Mr Tortoni could lend her the money for the surgery. With her new looks she could get hired someplace that paid better, then pay him back when she could. Until then there was only the vig to worry about, and for her it would be nothing, maybe a hundred good-faith money a week-which at the time, with Johnny Mr Sincere LaGuardia selling her not only on the idea of the loan but on her natural beauty, her chances for coming up in the world and glorious future, had seemed like nothing.

  It started seeming like something soon afterward. The nose job had been a success and she now looked like a young Sophia Loren, but she couldn't parlay that into a job that paid any better, and after six weeks of buying nothing, not even going out to a movie, she couldn't come up with the vig.

  And Johnny, who had been her friend and protector when she had been the Nose, had told her he could cover for her, just up the vig on a couple of other clients, but it was risky and he had to have some payment, some sign of good faith.

  But she didn't have anything.

  He'd put his hand on her, right there-the first time anybody had touched her there-and said that that was worth more than a hundred a week.

  Then she was pulling away, scared, from that different Johnny-and didn't even see the hand come up so hard she thought he had broken her face-and then he was on top of her.

  And she remembered listening to him explaining afterward that she didn't have a choice. Somebody had to come up with the vig. He didn't want her to be hurt and he could protect her. He hadn't hit her because he was mad at her. He wasn't mad at her. But she needed to take a little reality check. He was her friend…

  "Oh, oh, Jesus Mary and Joseph." Johnny LaGuardia said the litany every time he came. Collapsing, he fell against her back, his arms wrapped around her.

  She felt his weight on her, and she started to cry. She would never be able to come up with the vig. This was never going to end.

  At Frank's Extra Espresso Bar on Vallejo, Umberto Tozzi was on the jukebox
singing 'Ti Amo,' sounding like an Italian John Lennon. 'Ti Amo' was Angelo Tortoni's favorite song, and whenever he was in the place he played it at least once an hour. If anybody minded, they didn't say.

  But the flip side was that nobody else played the song anymore. All the regulars, the owner Sal Calcagno, the waitresses, everybody, they were sick to death of 'Ti Amo.' It was a good song, and for a long time it had been Johnny LaGuardia's favorite, too.

  Now, though, as he came up off the sidewalk behind the grilled fence, past the couples drinking their espresso or cappuccino or Peroni beer or sirops, he wasn't too thrilled to hear it because hearing it meant that the Angel was there already and he wouldn't have time to ask one of the boys why he'd been summoned down here again.

  Not that he should be too worried. Mr Tortoni was his godfather. But he was also his employer, and certainly he was no one to get on the wrong side of, and this thing last night-having to explain Ingraham's disappearance, being six hundred dollars short-had not made him happy. Which Johnny understood. Johnny wasn't happy himself. He had never been short before. But Johnny thought he had explained it.

  As always, Mr Tortoni was sitting all alone at the back of the room, back to the wall, under the poster of the Leaning Tower, at the small white table. Two of the other boys were playing pool, and Johnny nodded to them and then presented himself to Mr Tortoni, who took a sip of espresso and then motioned for Johnny to sit next to him.

  "Can I get you something, Johnny?" the Angel asked in Italian.

  It was amazing how quietly the man talked, how small and frail he looked. You didn't have to talk loud to get heard; physical strength was a small part of having power. These things Mr Tortoni had taught him.

  Johnny realized his throat was dry and he said he thought a mandarino sirop would be good, and Mr Tortoni whispered up to Sal Calcagno at the counter and in two seconds Johnny's drink was in front of him.

  "You wanted to see me?"

  Mr Tortoni put his cup down and fiddled for a moment with a short cigar, which Johnny lit for him as it got to his mouth. "You've been busy, have you?" he asked through the smoke.

  "Okay," Johnny said. "Trying to-"

  "So maybe-no, not maybe, I'm sure it's an oversight."

  Johnny waited. Mr Tortoni smoked some more. Johnny took a drink of his sirop. Billiard balls clicked behind him. 'Ti Amo' was over and 'Love Will Keep Us Together' came on, and Mr Tortoni made a motion to Sal Calcagno, who walked to the jukebox and pushed the button in the back before Toni Tenille could finish saying 'You belong to me now' Bobby Darin came on with 'Volare' and Mr Tortoni nodded, smiling, at Sal, then lost the smile and looked at Johnny.

  "Well?"

  "Whatever it is, I'll fix it," Johnny said.

  "You don't know? It could be you forgot. The excitement all last night, this Ingraham problem."

  Johnny nodded, without a clue.

  "Ingraham is five hundred dollars. I get reminded today-bookkeepers, you know, they keep track of things."

  Johnny still didn't see it. He was thinking, Five hundred?

  Mr Tortoni put his hand over Johnny's, soft as a kitten. "Doreen Biaggi," he said. He went back to his coffee. "It's a small thing, Johnny, but then again, it isn't. Ingraham was five, Doreen Biaggi is one. Last night you're six short. I think maybe you're nervous, you got mixed up."

  In spite of the sirop, Johnny's throat was sticking together when he swallowed. How could he be so dumb? He had tacked Doreen's vig onto Ingraham's, making up a bullshit story to Rusty about Mr Tortoni's interest rates going up to cover expenses-hell, Johnny knew Rusty would be able to come up with another hundred a week. So Johnny had gotten used to thinking of Ingraham as a six.

  "So you collect from this Doreen?"

  "Sure, like always."

  "Then you got the hundred? Her hundred?"

  Johnny reached into his back pocket, praying to every saint in Heaven that he had an even hundred in his wallet.

  "You still nervous, Johnny? Is something wrong?"

  Madonna mia! A hundred-dollar bill. He took it out and put it on the table. "I don't want to disappoint you, Mr Tortoni."

  Angelo Tortoni palmed the bill and laid a hand softly against Johnny's cheek. "As I say, it's not a big thing. A hundred dollars. But the principle of it-am I right?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Maybe get a book," Mr Tortoni said. "Keep track who's a six and who's a five. And who's a one." He puffed at his cigar. "That Doreen Biaggi, she's got to be a pretty girl now with the nose fixed?"

  Mr Tortoni stared now at Johnny, making sure he got the message that nothing was a secret around here.

  "You know, Johnny," he said, quietly, gently, "we all got our own businesses to run. Your line of work, the temptations when you're working with cash, no records… I know what it can be like. You figure old man Tortoni"-he smiled, nodding-"yeah, I'm an old man, that's okay… you figure old man Tortoni, he just needs his five grand, whatever it is, every week, and so long as you come up with that, you're covering your end of the business. But, Johnny, that leaves out my side of the business. You might think-I'm not saying you do, I'm just saying I know the temptations and it might cross your mind-you might think you'll strong-arm somebody for more than the vig I charge 'em. Cut somebody else, maybe a girl, huh, a little slack."

  Johnny couldn't say a word. Mr Tortoni was holding the thin cigar in his right hand, the one nearest Johnny, and he put that hand over Johnny's, the wet butt end of the cigar flattening out against the back of Johnny's hand.

  "I know you hear what I'm saying, Johnny."

  "I wouldn't do anything like that," he managed to get out.

  "I put a man like you in a position of trust. He represents my interests to the community. A man betrays that trust, I got no use for him. Lean closer to me, Johnny."

  The hand still covered his, gripping tightly.

  "I kiss you now and you're a dead man."

  Johnny swallowed, trying to breathe. Mr Tortoni's mouth was inches from his cheek. "If this is going on," he whispered, "it has to stop."

  The strains of 'Ti Amo' began again. Mr Tortoni leaned back in his chair. He took the flattened tip of the cigar into his mouth like a nipple and drew on it. "I love this song," he said.

  Frannie wasn't sure it had been a good idea, letting Dismas stay here. It was stirring things up.

  Earlier, he'd almost gone back to his own house, suddenly worried that staying here was putting her in some danger. He just wasn't thinking clearly. There was no connection that could bring Louis Baker from Hardy's place to hers, and she had told him that. He was safer here and he was staying and that was final.

  Now, closing in on midnight, she lay in the king-size bed, Dismas out at the kitchen table, probably staring out at the street as he'd done in every minute of his spare time since he'd been here, watching to see if Louis Baker would show up.

  It wasn't like Diz. Just sitting there, brooding, with that damn gun out on the table, drinking decaffeinated coffee and waiting for Abe Glitsky to call him.

  Which didn't seem like it was going to happen tonight.

  Dismas had come in around six-thirty from his day of touring gun shops, excited that he'd proved something -Rusty Ingraham had indeed put in an order for a gun on Wednesday afternoon at a place called Taylor's in the Tenderloin district. He'd needed the gun as protection against Baker. Also, Louis Baker had evidently come by the Shamrock looking for Hardy. So he had placed a call to his friend Glitsky and thought with the new information, Glitsky would have enough at least to take Baker off the streets.

  Frannie hadn't really understood. "So what if Ingraham ordered a gun? How does that help you?"

  "Well, Abe's problem here seems to be Rusty as much as anything else. Since they haven't found his body, he is somehow not as real a victim as Maxine Weir."

  "Well, maybe he's not."

  Hardy had shaken his head. "You had to have seen him. The man was terrified."

  "But that doesn't mean he's dead. Doe
s it?"

  He'd looked out then at the darkening street, perhaps trying to phrase it for himself. "No, not necessarily. But Abe seems to need a reason to want to go after Baker. His threat to me isn't enough, I guess, and Abe doesn't see any necessary connection between Maxine Weir and Baker."

  "Maybe she was just there and got in the way."

  "Right. Anyway, what I have to do is show Abe some hard evidence that Rusty's fear of Louis was legitimate. That it wasn't, say, Rusty who killed Maxine, motive unknown."

  "Excuse me for being dumb, but how does the gun show that?"

  "Doesn't it lead you to the conclusion that Rusty didn't own a gun? Or even have access to a gun?"

  She'd thought a minute. "I guess it would."

  "Of course it would. If he already had a gun, he wouldn't have had to order one."

  "But why will that make your friend Glitsky do something about Louis Baker?"

  "Abe is my friend, and Louis Baker is going to kill me unless Abe does something first-or I do. What I'm trying to do is get Abe to look at this with his cop's eyes. I think he sees the Baker angle now as his friend's understandable fear… without hard evidence… interfering with his real job, which is finding the killer of a known victim -Maxine Weir. I'm trying to make it clear that what Abe would call my paranoia is at least based on something real, which also improves the odds that Rusty Ingraham is a real victim too."

  But the call from Abe hadn't come, and Frannie and Dismas had done the dishes and watched some television and Dismas had had a couple of beers before losing his patience altogether and beginning his vigil at the kitchen window.

  Now she heard him moving out there, then a noise like the rustling of newspaper.

  She turned onto her side of the bed.

  Her husband Eddie had been dead for four months now. There was a hole there she would never fill, but she had been getting used to the idea of living alone, of having the baby alone, of making a new life somehow, alone.

  Dismas was making her think again about Eddie. Or he reminded her of Eddie the way Eddie had reminded her of Dismas when she first met him. She told herself it was one of the hormone storms that had been so difficult in the first trimester, but she knew it wasn't just that. Dismas had inserted himself into her life, and she had welcomed it. And now even little things like doing the dishes and pouring him coffee made her shudder to think that this, too, would end. And then she would be alone again.