by John L. Monk
I nodded. “Fucking Paulie. I like it. We’re going to be good friends. Already on a nickname basis. So here’s the deal: I’ll let you go, no strings attached. But I do have an offer for you, which you can take or leave.”
He smiled widely. “This I gotta hear.”
“My guess is you don’t like Lenny Carpino very much. Is that right?”
Paulie laughed. “Never did. Especially after he clipped my pocket DA. That really pissed me off, and this shit tonight ain’t helping.”
Rachael Anderson.
“So if something were to happen to him, how good would that be for you?”
He snorted, eyes dancing. “What, you’re gonna whack your own brother? Man, you’re so full of…” He stopped short of insulting me again and considered his surroundings—back in his home port, not sinking to the bottom of the ocean. “I’m listening.”
I told him what I wanted and watched confusion, disbelief, and then amusement flit across his wiseguy face.
“That’s some story, Vinnie. How do I know it’s not a trap?”
I stared pointedly around us. “Trap? Trap? I already trapped you. I had you dead to rights out there. I could have shot you, keelhauled you, drawn and quartered you, made you walk the plank—whatever I wanted—and you’re worried it’s a trap?”
“Jesus, all right already,” he said. “I fucking get it. But I still don’t trust your crazy ass. If I do this, I’m using my guys, or no deal.”
I shrugged. “Bring a hundred for all I care, so long as they’re armed.”
A cool minute went by where he stood there considering my offer. Then he gave a grudging nod. “You do what you said, you got a deal. Now get this rope off me. I can’t feel my goddamned hands.”
I untied him and stepped out of his reach, but he didn’t lunge at me. He freed himself the rest of the way and walked carefully on one shoe down the dock toward shore, with me following him. From there, he limped across the gravel parking lot to a car near a building with a sign saying, “Restrooms/Showers.” A click of my ride’s keys flashed the headlights of the car parked next to his.
“How can I reach you?” I said.
“You don’t know my fucking number?”
“Lost my phone. Had to get a new one.”
Paulie shook his head and took out his wallet. “Dammit Vinnie, my wallet’s all wet now. Why’d you have to do all that crazy shit if you was gonna make a deal? Aw, never mind…”
He handed me a soggy business card with gold lettering. That’s right: a Mafia business card.
“I’ll get my guys ready,” he said. “You don’t call, I’m gonna come after you and Lenny. You know I have to.”
I shrugged. “If I don’t call, I’ll probably be dead.”
Paulie look at me strangely, shook his head, and got in his car.
Watching him drive off, I wondered how the kidnapping had gone down. Were they out here together as friends, fishing like he’d implied they sometimes did, and then Vinnie shot him with a dart? It was still too cold out for most boaters, judging from the lack of activity and no other parked cars in sight. Maybe Vinnie snuck up on him doing maintenance.
My fancy phone reported two missed calls, both from the same number, and not Lenny's. I called it back. Five rings in and someone answered.
“You coming home tonight?” a woman said, tired-sounding.
Friends and family, always a pain.
“Business,” I said, as if that explained everything.
“I don’t like that he’s got you doing stuff all night.”
I took a chance. “Who?”
“Your stupid brother,” she said. “We should move to Florida. He’ll be fine without us. I want palm trees, Vin. This city’s a dump.”
Time for the old failsafe. “We talked about this…”
“No, Vin, we really haven’t, but I don’t wanna get into it now. I’m going back to sleep.”
“Wait, hold on. I’ll probably be gone a few days.” When she didn’t reply immediately, I winced in anticipation, then added, “Possibly a few weeks.”
“What the fuck, Vin? A few weeks? Why?”
Still wincing, I said, “Business?”
She made a sound of disgust. “See? That’s what I’m talking about. Things gotta change, Vin, I’m just sick of it.”
She hung up.
I smiled happily. Business. Such a simple word, yet magical and mysterious. For once, watching all those crime movies had finally paid off. I was officially off the hook with my significant other.
Woot!
That night, I bought a thumb drive from a drugstore. Then I slept in the car outside a library three blocks from Ristorante La Sicily. The library opened at ten. Sufficient time, I hoped, for Nate to gather the information he’d collected on the headquarters for Hopper House, LLC.
“I sent it a few minutes ago,” he said when I called him. “You log in okay?”
“Haven’t tried yet. Call you back if I have trouble.”
After logging in with a library computer, I smiled at the aerial map of the building and surrounding elevations. There was a handwritten schedule listing patrol times with arrows showing the route. Whoever Nate had hired was good.
Feeling sneaky and clever, I copied the map to the thumb drive and moved to a new computer. Then I created an email account on a free site, uploaded the data from the thumb drive as an attachment, and sent it to Paulie at the address on the business card. This way Nate’s information would never show up in a criminal probe. Rachael Anderson’s presentation had been surprisingly accurate: the Mob definitely leveraged Internet technology.
In my note to Paulie, I reiterated what I wanted. I didn’t need him getting creative with my mother’s life on the line. I also cautioned him to stay hidden—he was supposed to be dead, after all.
Paulie replied almost immediately: Don’t worry about me. Just fucking do it already.
Chapter Forty
The last time I’d been to Lenny's restaurant, the hour had been closer to one o’clock, on a weekday. Today was Tuesday, and I got there at noon. Close enough.
I parked in a no parking spot next to a dumpster behind the building, then walked around and entered the restaurant. Like last time, soft music played from the overhead speakers. This time, there were a number of tough looking men in the room seated at various tables and not eating. Some smiled at me and others nodded, with the occasional “How you doing, Vinnie?” thrown in for good measure.
The waiter who’d given me free pizza while I was Andre the hitman stood cutting slices behind a glass display case. I caught his attention and waved him over.
Looking around, I said, “You got any of that free pizza?”
“Sure do, Vinnie.”
“Can I get a Coke with it?”
“No problem, sir.”
“The old man in yet?”
The waiter nodded. “About ten minutes ago.”
I eat when I’m nervous. I ate two slices and wanted more, because I also eat when perfectly calm. Like other hoppers, I had a weakness for earthly delights. But at least I didn’t use drugs recreationally, like I’d done in Seattle, or sleep around, like I’d done nonstop since Nate’s fiancée. A paragon of virtue, I was.
“At least I have pizza,” I said, staring at my empty plate. I called the waiter back over.
“What’s up, Vinnie?” he said.
“The music’s too low. Can you turn it up louder? I love this stuff.”
“I’ll do it right now,” he said with a puzzled grin.
A minute later, the soothing sounds of elevator Italian carried me to the back of the restaurant and through the door. At the end of the short hallway, sitting on a stool outside Lenny's office, was the bruiser from last time.
The man said, “How’s it going, Vinnie?”
Down a hall to the right was an emergency exit leading out back.
“It’s going,” I said.
“Who turned up the music?”
I took a wild
guess. “Tony?”
He laughed scornfully. “I knew that guy was a pansy.”
The man didn’t frisk me like he’d done when I was Andre. Which made sense. According to Paulie, I was supposed to be Lenny's brother. A made man, as we mafiosi call it.
I knocked politely on the door, waited a second, then strolled right in. When it shut behind me, the music died.
My new ride, Vinnie, was in his fifties, and in decent shape. Lenny, despite his full head of perfectly black hair, was somewhere in his sixties. He was also a little flabby. If it came to it, I figured I could take him in a fight.
“You’re early for once,” Lenny said around a mouthful of calzone. He had a napkin for a bib, stained with tomato sauce and other drippings. “Any news on bingo?”
“Bingo?” I said.
Lenny snorted, wiped his mouth, and took a sip of water from a full glass next to him. “You didn’t talk to him? He’s gotta be ready to move. They’ll come after him. Fucking call him now.”
He may have been Vinnie’s brother, but his tone was that of an angry manager to a bumbling employee. He picked up a landline phone on his desk and plopped it down near me.
“Oh, I get it,” I said, shaking my head. “Bingo. That’s someone’s name-o. Sure, I’ll call him.”
Lenny stared at me with a puzzled expression.
“B-I-N-G-O … B-I-N-G-O … B-I-N-G-O,” I sang, punching random buttons. I shrugged and hung up. “He wasn’t there-o.”
“The fuck’s the matter with you?”
I sat on his desk and faced him. “You knew Ricky was a killer. Did you also know he was a rapist?”
Lenny frowned. “Ricky? Why you asking about him for?”
“He raped a maid at that hotel,” I said. “After that, he strangled her. Did you know he was capable of something like that before you sent him?”
Lenny laughed uneasily. “I don’t know. Who gives a fuck? That was months ago. The pocket DA’s dead, Andre’s dead, and Ricky ain’t a problem no more.”
I’d hoped for something more concrete than that—proof he’d known how awful his nephew was. I’d known Ricky was a killer, but assumed it was contained to contract hits. But what he’d done to the maid, and the way he’d grabbed Rose and told me to leave the room … If Lenny had known the truth about him, it sure would make things easier for me.
“I know you think I’m your brother,” I said, hating what was about to happen, “and I’m sorry for that. Just know that I’m definitely not your brother doing this. It’s not personal.” Then, because it worked on the phone with that woman, I added, “It’s business.”
Before he could reply, I clamped a hand over his mouth, pulled the dart gun from under my shirt, and shot him with the medium-filled dart. If I used the high-volume dart, it might kill him. Also, I needed that one for later.
Lenny managed to yell a little through his nose. I worried the goon outside might hear him—even over the music—so I dropped the gun and pinched his nose shut. Lenny twisted and turned, trying to breathe more than yell, and when I let him about ten seconds later, all he did was suck in air—face red, eyes raging. Then he bit my hand.
“Dammit,” I hissed and tried to keep from screaming.
It hurt like hell, but I let him bite me. I pushed my hand deeper into his mouth and that seemed to work. He was releasing. Wait, no—he was slipping to the floor. The drug was working!
I kept looking from Lenny to the door and back again, but the guard outside stayed where he was. Quickly, before that changed, I checked Lenny's desk for a gun and found one right where you’d expect: top right drawer. Revolver, small caliber.
Lenny’s pulse was fast, but steady, under my fingers. I propped him in his chair so he wouldn’t fall over, then approached the door.
“This is going to be easy,” I said. “Really easy. Easy like Sunday morning easy.” I loaded the higher-volume dart. “Man, I hope this is easy.”
I opened the door and said, “Quick, hey, get in here.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Lenny needs you.”
The man pushed through, stared at Lenny in surprise and said, “Jesus, what’s wrong with him?”
He ran over to find out. Or tried to—I stuck my foot out and tripped him on his way past, sending him crashing to the floor.
Before he could recover, I whipped out the dart gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger. And of course nothing happened. Must have run out of CO2.
“It’s never that easy,” I muttered and leapt on the man’s back before he regained his feet.
“The fuck?” the man shouted, jerking around and grabbing wildly while I beat him in the back of the head with Lenny's revolver.
A tense moment came when he grabbed my hair, and things might have gone from really bad to very really bad if not for a freak accident of genetics—the same freak accident, I realized, that allowed Lenny's hair to be so mesmerizingly black and thick at his advanced age.
Put simply: Vinnie and Lenny were both bald.
The man ripped my toupee off and stared at it in horror, giving me precious time to land three more raps to the back of his head in quick succession, sending him to his knees. I didn’t like hitting people with guns, so before he could get up, I popped open the dart gun, pulled out the dart, and stabbed him in the back.
“Aaaah!” he screamed, swatting around behind him.
I stared at the syringe in disbelief—it was still full of liquid! I pulled it out and stabbed him again—this time harder, with a swift overhand blow.
“Aaah!” he screamed again, and jerked out of my reach.
“What the fuck, Vinnie?” the man yelled.
He lifted his pants leg, revealing a gun. Already stooping for it.
“Don’t even try, uh … you,” I said, pointing Lenny's gun at him and backing away. “Just let the drug take effect and I’ll leave with my brother. This isn’t about you. You don’t have to die.”
The man glared at me. Great glare. Super menacing. He started to say something, maybe ask me what the fuck again, then his eyes lost focus and he fell over—still moving, legs scrabbling to get up, not quite out for the count.
I crept forward and squinted at the dart. Most of the liquid was gone. I bent the tube in the middle to squeeze more in. A minute later, he stopped moving.
After a quick check of the hallway and the alley out back—both still empty—I dragged Lenny from his office and muscled him into the trunk. Then I set out for the landlord’s house in Delaware.
Chapter Forty-One
Four hours later found me outside the fabled Hopper House headquarters—a gated property in a rural area southwest of Dover. A road snaked around a hill down to a guard booth just outside the gate. The map showed a large building on the other side, but I couldn’t see it.
I’d been watching the property for several hours now, noting the golf cart that circled the hill every thirty minutes. The guard on duty stared at me across the two lane road. So far, no one had approached to ask what I was doing here. If that happened, I’d drive off and come back later.
At precisely 11 p.m., I pulled up to the gatehouse and rolled down my window. The guard slid back his.
“Yeah?” he said. He had a wary look on his face, and I couldn’t see his hands.
“Dan Jenkins,” I said. “They’re expecting me.”
“Got an ID?”
I nodded and handed him my Vinnie ID. The man looked at it, grunted, and handed it back.
“Gimme a moment while I call up.”
“Indubitably.”
The man closed the window.
Bolted to the corner of a narrow awning, a security camera turned slowly away from the entrance and angled down at me. Trying not to seem threatening, I summoned half my Jenkins charm and smiled. Too much charm and I’d blow out the monitor on the other side.
A minute later, the man opened the window again. “Drive slowly around the hill and park under the light. Someone will be out to escort you. Don’t lea
ve your car unless you’re told to.”
He threw a switch and the gate swung slowly open.
Before I went through, I leaned over and said, “Can I ask you a question?”
“What?”
“Do you have any kids? A wife? Sick parents you’re taking care of?”
“Huh…?”
I didn’t know where to go with that and had already said too much. “Never mind.”
I followed the single road around the hill through a barrier of trees I remembered from the map. It took me to a building with a circular parking area.
Two men appeared out of nowhere with automatic weapons drawn. One of them had a goatee. Definitely a bad guy.
I rolled down my window and said, “Hey fellas, what’s shaking?”
Goatee jerked the door open, pulled me roughly out, and forced me up against the car. He patted me down.
“Boss wants you alive,” he said. “He didn’t say in what shape. So shut up and move.”
“Where to?”
“Front door, stupid,” the other one said, probably to make up for his less evil grooming.
He shoved me forward and I staggered to avoid falling.
The building in question was quite large and modern looking, with jutting elevations and an odd dome in the middle. Plate glass windows rose to a pointy peak on one side, giving the place a Gumby-esque appearance. I couldn’t tell if it was an office building or just an extravagant house.
Clean Cut stepped forward and opened one of a pair of double doors.
Goatee said, “Keep your mouth shut unless spoken to, and don’t touch anything.”
“This place sure looks expensive,” I said in admiration. “What if I stumble and break a priceless vase? I remember an episode of Cheers where Rebecca broke a vase and Woody took the blame. The guy who owned it thought Woody was brave for confessing, and—”
“Get moving, asshole,” Goatee said, shoving me forward, heedless of any damage I might cause.
The entryway was grand and tall, with hex-shaped plate glass way up top. A complicated staircase of concrete slabs rose from a massive central pillar, spiraling up and down to different elevations like an enormous tinker toy.
