Moses nodded.
"Okay, he comes into a lot of this insurance money, he knows Louis Baker is getting out of jail and has threatened to kill him. Maybe he even starts fantasizing maybe it wouldn't be so bad if Louis did kill him-that would at least get him out from under the vig-"
"So he sets himself up to get killed? Get serious."
Hardy shook his head. "He sets himself up to look like he's been killed. The whole thing's a scam. He just wants to look dead, get the loan sharks off him."
"Why doesn't he move, disappear?"
"Because you don't move away from mob money. They find you, I don't care where. It's an honor thing. But if you're dead…"
"If you're dead they don't look…"
"Right. Give me some coffee, would you? And get rid of this."
Hardy watched Moses move, filling a few other drink orders at the bar as he passed, pouring his coffee. Hardy got his darts out from his jacket pocket and opened the leather case on the bar. He rubbed his fingers over the worn velvet inside.
One other thing the Shamrock did right was make great coffee. Ninety percent of it was served in what they called Irish coffee, which made Hardy puke. Three good liquids combined to make one bad drink. But when you wanted a cup of coffee, the straight stuff couldn't be beat.
"I don't know, Diz, there's lots of holes. Why'd he come see you?"
"Because I tie Baker to him. If I'm not in it, who finds out about Baker?"
"Weren't his prints at Rusty's place? That ties him to it."
"I don't know, Mose. It's not as good as me, an ex-D.A., making sure everybody knows Baker had a motive, was fresh out of jail, you name it. Plus, because I'm running now too, I try like hell to get Baker put away, and did it, too, didn't I?"
"He was coming after you."
"I'm not saying he wasn't. Look, if Rusty's going to get out from under his vig, he's got to be dead, not MIA. I'm his corroboration. Without the threat, he'd just be a missing person, wouldn't he? Now, with me helping him, he's presumed dead."
"His blood was on the bed, Diz. And why did he buy a gun he was never going to use?"
Hardy leaned over the bar, his elbows almost in the trough. "Rusty was the great American lawyer. Never lost a case. You can bet he's a very thorough guy who wanted his scam to work. And you know what genius is, Mose? It's endless attention to detail."
Moses went to pour a drink.
Hardy fingered his darts, sipped his coffee. Tried to picture Rusty Ingraham at the bottom of the ocean.
Couldn't do it. Not anymore.
Chapter Twenty-two
" ^ "
Lace removed a board from the side of the stoop at the place Samson mostly stayed. The sun wasn't quite up yet, but he hadn't been getting any sleep to speak of anyway, and he wanted some darkness.
Jumpup, he'd gone 'til things chilled out over to his cousins at Hunter's Point, but Lace lived here and he wasn't leaving. This be his home turf and, he starting to think, woe betide the man who fucks with it.
Fighting his fear of rats and whatever else might live in there, Lace reached his hand far into the dark hole under the steps. He patted the ground inside, his teeth chattering. He hoping nobody hears it inside.
Nothing.
He sat, arms now tucked into his pits, huddled in the jacket, letting the fear subside.
It wasn't possible. He couldn't be wrong.
The shaking still there, he forced his hand again into the cold and silent space. Retraced what he'd just done, making himself feel the stones, the chunks of rotting wood, a piece of moldy cloth that felt like a dead animal. Reaching back, up, to the front, seeing the yellow rat eyes about to snap at him, take a finger, give him the rabies. He closed his eyes, feeling.
Way in, up in the front, wrapped in the freezing oily animal cloth, he felt the package. The gun felt heavy in his hands.
The strip of light in the east hadn't widened by a hair and he was walking now, the board back over the hole, in place, his pocket heavy, shoelaces trailing around by his feet.
Over to the Mama's, around to the front door by the street, away from the view of the cuts. No one around. Nothing moving.
After some knocks he heard somebody moving inside. Then, enormous in a white housecoat, Mama opened the door a crack. Seeing it was Lace, she let him in.
"What time it, child? You all right?"
Lace closed the door behind him and waited for Mama to sit on the couch next to the dim light before he came over and sat at the other end. He noticed that the window over the couch had been covered over again with cardboard. She pulled a knitted cover up over her body, tucking her feet under her giant thighs.
"Now," she said, "what you doing?"
Lace took the gun, still wrapped in an old shirt sleeve, out of his pocket. He started pulling it out from the cloth. "We gotta tell somebody," he said.
The Mama wasn't taking her eyes from the gun.
"This the piece killed Dido, Mama," Lace said. "Ain't no Louis Baker kill him. This Samson's piece."
The Mama nodded. "Who we fixin' to tell about it? You want to put it down?"
Lace had it unwrapped. "It's loaded still," he said. He turned the barrel toward himself.
"Don't!"
He froze. "What?"
"Just put it down! Put it down! Thing go off by itself then what? Put that thing down! On the floor!"
He leaned over and laid it down.
The Mama let out a breath, another one. "They're dangerous, guns. Where you get that one?"
"It's Samson's. It was Samson's."
"You said that."
"And that means Louis, he didn't kill Dido."
"Child, I knew that. Louis never hurt nobody anymore. He just want to set up house. 'Til they don't leave him alone."
"But he run."
"You run, too, child, they come after you."
Lace put his back up against the cushions. His red-rimmed eyes suddenly burned-up all night waiting for his chance, light enough to see where he's going, dark enough to get away.
He was safe here with Mama now, and Samson didn't have the gun. He had it. Seemed that ought to change the way things felt.
"You know, Mama, runnin'. Don't that make them think you did it, too?"
Bundled in her blanket, her big head bobbed. "That's right."
"So Louis run and he saying he did it?"
"But he don't run and they take him down for it."
"But now he run and they got him anyway."
"That often the way, child." She made a clucking noise, shifting her bulk, impatient. "This ain't be the news. You go bad with the law, he keep you bad. Don't matter what you do, you the first body they come at."
"But they got Louis for Dido, and he don't kill Dido. This gun prove that."
"All right," the Mama said. "What?"
"So we let it on to the Man."
She labored to pull herself up. "Here's what happens then. You listen up now. The Man come here and you talk about Louis and that gun there. Then he say, 'Interesting, and how come it be you now holding this piece?' And next you know you down there next to Louis. You like that?"
"It won't be…"
She leaned forward and rested a meaty hand on his thin leg. "There ain't nobody with Louis more than me. He don't kill Dido and maybe it come out, but it don't come out with you going to the Man. He just resent you interferin'. You got a problem, you best take care of it yourself."
"And Louis…?"
"Louis take care of hisself, too."
"Seem like I ought to talk to someone. Get some help. Help Louis out."
She gently tightened her grip on his thigh. "I know it seem like that," she said, "but that ain't be how it works."
It wasn't that Abe didn't believe coincidences occurred. You could be humming a song and have it turn up on the radio. Somebody's on the phone when you were just about to call them. That kind of thing.
But when you mentioned, say, a Johnny LaGuardia to a potential suspect in a murder
investigation like, say, Hector Medina, one day, and the next day you find yourself at a dumpster behind the Wax Museum in Fisherman's Wharf, looking at the holes in Johnny's head, it made you wonder.
Two holes. One in the back and one at the temple. Either one would've done the job fine by itself.
Abe wondered if Medina's logbook showed that he'd worked a double shift all last night. He wondered if he had some extra money lying around, if he were at work today.
Maneuvering through the techs, Abe cleared the morning shade in the alley and stood on the sidewalk in the bright sun. Knowing that Glitsky had interviewed Johnny recently, Batiste had called Abe at home as soon as the call with the tentative I.D. came in. Abe had called Hardy out of courtesy. Hardy had been groggy, perhaps hungover, but he said he'd be here.
Now he was walking up wearing corduroys, hiking boots, a 'Members Only' jacket over a turtleneck. Abe cocked his head back toward the alley and started walking. Hardy fell in beside him. They lifted the yellow tape.
"Johnny LaGuardia?" Hardy said.
"The late great."
They both studied the body, still uncovered, now laid out on a stretcher. One tasseled brown loafer was still on. His sport coat hung open revealing a salmon-colored shirt half-tucked into some stylish pleated Italian trousers. His shoulder holster was empty.
"The gun was on him when we got here," Abe said, "in case you were wondering."
"So he knew whoever it was."
Abe nodded. "Safe bet."
Johnny's face, surprisingly to Hardy, showed no sign of exit wounds. "Small caliber, huh?"
"Must have been," Abe said. "Looks like twenty-two or twenty-five."
"Again," Hardy said.
"I noticed. And it didn't go down here either," Abe said. "He was dumped." He motioned to the dumpster. "Symbolism, yet."
Hardy looked another minute. "You had coffee yet?"
A black Chrysler LeBaron pulled into the mouth of the alley. A chauffeur stepped out and walked around the front of the car. Abe waited, watching.
"Who's that?" Hardy asked.
The Angel sat in the back seat, holding hands with Doreen Biaggi. She had been staying in his upstairs room since Sunday, taking meals with the family. Now she wore sunglasses to cover her black eye. The swelling on her cheek was still visible. Tortoni squeezed her hand. "Va bene?"
She nodded. Matteo had come to the door and opened it. He took Doreen's hand and helped her out of the seat. Tortoni got out his own side and glanced down at the area surrounded by the police tape. He took a thin cigar from his inside pocket and rubbed it between his fingers, breathing in the energizing odors of garbage and crabsmell. He lit the cigar, flushed in the pleasure this perfect morning was giving him. But he kept his face expressionless. He was supposed to be in pain here.
He motioned with his head to Matteo, who took Doreen's elbow and began guiding her forward. The three came together at the front of the car.
Here were two men, police, the black one leading as though he were in charge. Tortoni had seen him before. Most blacks looked the same to him, but this one-with the scar running through his lips, the hatchet nose, the blue eyes-was distinctive. But he couldn't remember the name. The other one he didn't know.
The black one kept his hands in his pockets. "Angelo," he said, low key, "how you doing?"
Tortoni saw Matteo tighten his mouth. His son liked for people to call his father Mr Tortoni, or Don Angelo. But Tortoni only lifted his palm-as he might restrain a well-trained dog-and Matteo settled back.
"I am not so well." Tortoni barely heard himself. He raised the cigar to his lips and inhaled. "Not so well if what I hear may be true."
"If you mean Johnny…"
He made a show of looking around the officer. His hands went to his sides and he hung his head. "Do we know who did this?" he whispered. Doreen was standing next to him, taking his arm, helping him with his grief. He raised his eyes. "Johnny was a son to me."
"We don't know anything yet, Angelo. In fact, it crossed my mind I might want to talk to you sometime soon."
"He is here now," Doreen said. "Talk to him now."
Good, Angelo thought, protective already. He patted her arm and said in Italian, "Ignore this buffoon."
"What'd you tell her?" the cop said.
He smiled through his pain. "I told her you were only doing your job." He patted her arm again. "She's upset, too. She and Johnny were very close. You have no ideas yet?"
"I have ideas. I don't think he killed himself. He wasn't hit by a truck. Like that." The cop-Glitsky, that was it -clucked. "No, my idea is somebody did him your way." He put his index finger to his temple and cocked his thumb.
Tortoni, the soul of patience, shook his head. "I am a businessman, officer. But I am not in the business of violence."
"Your man Johnny carried a gun."
Tortoni gestured, a forgiving father. "You knew Johnny? A baby. He imagines he protects me." A smile. "Where's the harm?… Do you mind, can we see him?"
They moved back into the alley. Tortoni went to one knee and crossed himself over the body. He remained that way for thirty seconds. A good, clean job. He leaned over and kissed Johnny's clean jaw.
Doreen had her forehead against Matteo's shoulder when he stood up. It was all right if she didn't have the strength to look, but it was important, he thought, that she see firsthand what he could do.
But that was enough. With a tiny move of his head he directed Matteo to take Doreen back to the car. Watching them walk off, he took another puff on his cigar. Che bello giorno!
"Do you have any ideas, Angelo?"
The sun had cleared the lower buildings, so that he had to squint into Glitsky's face. He shrugged, his palms out. "Johnny was young, maybe hot-tempered. But a good boy."
"You don't know any enemies he had recently? Maybe protecting you?"
"There has been no trouble," he said. "This I don't understand."
"How about personally? Money troubles? Girls?"
Tortoni shook his head.
"Do you have any dealings with a Hector Medina?"
"Who is Hector Medina? I have never heard the name."
Glitsky shrugged. "He knew Johnny, that's all. I wondered how well."
"You think he, this Hector Medina, he did this?"
The white cop, who had been silent all the while, spoke up, "I know who didn't do it."
"Who's that?" Glitsky asked, looking at the other man.
"Louis Baker."
Tortoni stared at both of them. He'd have to check out who these two people were-Hector Medina and Louis Baker.
Glitsky took it up again. To Tortoni, he said, "The thing is, I was talking to Johnny just the other day and he said you were having some problems-you and him."
Tortoni saw no point responding to that.
"This problem-it seemed to involve Rusty Ingraham -something about his vig being short. And Medina's also been mixed up with Ingraham. Sort of a coincidence, wouldn't you say?"
Tortoni nodded. "I was you, I'd look into that. But Johnny told me Ingraham was dead."
The two cops exchanged glances. The white guy spoke again. "Johnny told you that? He see him? Dead, I mean?"
Tortoni said that when Johnny told him somebody was dead it usually was the truth. "What, you guys didn't see him?"
"Technically he's a missing person," Glitsky said. "You lose a lot of money on him?"
"Some. In business you take some risks."
"Did you know last week he came into, like, thirty thousand dollars?"
Tortoni made a note to have somebody check out Johnny's apartment, his mother's flat, his friends. The son of a bitch. But he only said, "Good for him."
The white cop said, "You wouldn't have seen any of that, would you?"
Tortoni glanced down the alley. His son had put Doreen back into the car and waited, arms crossed, leaning against the hood. He took a step in that direction. "I got an accountant takes care of things like that. You want to know, make an a
ppointment. I claim every penny I make." He stopped and pointed to the body on the ground. "I'm talking to you both so nice 'cause I want to help you find the sumbitch did in my boy here. You need help, time goes by, I got connections might do some good. Everybody cooperates. This guy Medina, you talking to him?"
Glitsky nodded. "He works at the Drake. I'll be going over this afternoon."
"You find anything, I'd consider it a personal favor you let me know." Tortoni wondered if going back over to the body would be laying it on too thick and decided it would be. He straightened himself, bearing up under the loss. Nodding at the two cops, he started back to his car.
Hardy was reflecting on the difference between Abe's professional attitude and his own, why Abe was probably on his way to seeing Hector Medina again, and Hardy was here eating ice cream at the Gelato just off Stanyan, waiting for Courtenay Moran to show.
Glitsky had another murder, committed by someone probably in his jurisdiction, and the killer was walking the streets. So Abe's job was to follow the threads from that and bring that new person in. If it tied into Maxine's death, all to the good. But the fact that it hadn't been Louis Baker didn't seem to make all that much difference to Abe. Somebody, after all, had killed Johnny, and Abe's job was to find that person. Hardy had to remember that Louis was in as much for the killing at Holly Park as he was for Maxine, and Abe just left it like that.
In fact, the more he thought about it, the theory he'd laid on Moses last night was starting to make more and more sense. He, Hardy, was involved in this whole thing only because Rusty had come to him. Period. And why had he done that?
He had done that, and made it as convincing as possible, because he needed someone with impeccable credentials, with no ax of his own to grind-somebody exactly like Dismas Hardy-to preach the gospel of the dead, not the missing, Rusty Ingraham.
Because the mob didn't look for a dead man.
And setting up Louis Baker? No problem. Guy deserved life in prison anyway. Him getting out after nine years was a mockery of the justice system, wasn't it? Serve him right, after all the crimes he'd gotten away with, to get him for something he didn't do.
The Vig dh-2 Page 26
