"The nurse was the worst," he says. "That was very wrong. That was very stupid."
"It was murder, pure and simple," I says.
"It came after."
"After what?"
"After I was asked the favor." He stares at me asthough I could be a devil, or maybe I could be the priest who's hearing his last confession. "I hate this," he finally says. "I hate that you put me in a place where I've got to explain myself. I'm not used to having to explain myself."
Theresa's hand moves. Her finger comes up and touches the skin on the side of his neck. He moves his head a little, toward the hand of the person he loves most in the world.
"You're entitled," he says. "Here's the way it comes to me at first. I'm told this Joseph Asbach will be picked up for conspiracy to create a civil disorder and do public damage because a bomb has gone off at the Free Abortion Clinic on Sperry Avenue. My son-in-law, Daniel Tartaglia, appeals to me to use my influence in Asbach's behalf because Asbach is a client, and also because my son-in-law supports the principles of the Right-to-Lifers . . ."
"Even when they blow up . . ."
". . . although he certainly does not endorse the use of violence to make their case. Asbach, who's a friend as well as a client, swears to Daniel that he had no hand in the bombing and has not one bit of knowledge about it."
"So you do your son-in-law the favor," I says. "Why not? It's a terrible thing these people are doing, killing unborn babies. It's unfortunate maybe that the bomber wasn't more careful and two people die, but that's the chance people take who go against God's law. Besides which, it's such a small favor. A telephone call."
"A telephone call," he repeats very softly. "Judge Ogilvie makes the arrangement."
"Then you find out somebody put a bullet in Helen Brickhouse and set the bomb to cover it. He's not a very good assassin, or he don't care, and Mrs. Klutzman dies, too."
He nods. "It's not such a simple favor anymore. I have Joseph Asbach brought in for a conversation. I let him know I'll see he's rearrested if he had anything to do with the killing of the girl, or if lie knows anything about the killing of the girl, but that I'll see he has the best defense money can buy. I'll see the charge is reduced to voluntary manslaughter. I'll make it easy for him."
"Which is when he tells you that Daniel Tartaglia was playing house with Helen Brickhouse?"
He nods again. "Which is when—"
"If Danny wanted to wallow with pigs, that was all right with me," Theresa says, "but to pick one out and fool himself that he'd fallen in love with her . . ."
"Hush, Theresa," DiBella says, reaching back to touch her hand with his hand. "Asbach tells me about my son-in-law and his foolish indiscretion. So, now I call my son-in-law in for a conversation."
Theresa gives a little gasp as though we've come to the part that humiliates her most. She lets go her father's shoulders and walks away over to the tall windows. She pushes the sheer curtains aside and looks out at the garden. I can hear her little girl shouting at the dogs.
"Does he admit that he played a game with the whore what went too far. Was she threatening him with blackmail?" I says.
"He says no," DiBella says. "What does it matter? He's the father of my grandchildren. I already asked the favor. I already gave my marker to a lawyer . . ."
"Streeter."
". . . a judge . . ."
"Ogilvie."
". . . and a committeeman."
"Velletri."
"I can't look like a man who changes his mind like he changes his shirt. I can't tell them to take away Asbach's shield."
"Ah, Mr. DiBella, you're blowing smoke in my eyes. You ask me into this house and say you're going to treat me to your confidence. You're going to explain to me, as much as you hate having to do it, how you got caught in a ball of string . . ."
A little storm of noise comes from the hallway and right through the door, which opens and lets in a little girl and a little boy followed by the man who looks like Valentino. The kids run to their grandpop and climb all over his shoes and expensive slacks with their dirty shoes, and he don't even care. Tartaglia loses his smile and stands in the doorway looking from Theresa to DiBella to me. He takes it all in and he knows what's happening.
DiBella is leaning over the two kids what he's set down on the floor off his lap. He's taking pieces of candy from his pocket and pressing them into their little hands, and he's whispering love songs into their little ears.
"Oh, Pa," Theresa says when she sees what he's doing with the candy, like any mother in the world would do when she worries about the kids' teeth and sees Grandpop slipping them candy.
"So, what can a little licorice hurt them," DiBella says over his shoulder. "It's natural licorice," he says to me. Then he shoos the kids out to play with their big sister and the dogs. Tartaglia closes the door behind them.
"You don't have to hear this," DiBella says.
"Yes, I have to hear this," Tartaglia says.
"Your father-in-law's just telling me how you asked him to do a favor for a somebody you said was a friend, but it turns out you was asking the favor for yourself."
"How's that?"
"You was killing the investigation into the Sperry Avenue bombing which would have pointed to you sooner or later."
"You have evidence to back up these allegations?"
"Shut up, you want to stay," DiBella says. "Shut up. This isn't lawyer talk, this is talk between honorable men."
I don't know how I got put in the bag with an honorable man who made his pile with the gun and the knife, but I'm in no mood to argue fine points.
DiBella turns his flat eyes to me again. "Yes," he says, "my daughter's husband used me like you say. He told me a little lie to cover a bigger lie. He asked me to get a little favor done which became a big favor."
"You could've let go."
"No. I couldn't let go. I told you this man is the father of my grandchildren."
"And my husband. Still my husband," Theresa says.
There's a lot of pride at stake here. A lot of face. Tartaglia hears what's in his wife's voice. It sounds to him like it sounds to me. Now that he's scared enough, sorry enough, she'll have him back. He takes the chance and walks over to stand beside her at the window.
He smirks at me because he's really sure of himself when she doesn't move away. DiBella will protect him. He won't get tossed to the dogs.
"You had the autopsy report and the bullet taken from Helen Brickhouse tossed away," I says.
"I had that done," DiBella says.
"You sent Connie and Angie after me."
"You wouldn't back off. It was just to hurt you a little."
"You ever see that goddamn junkyard dog?" I says.
"The watchman was in the shed. He'd have come out and pulled the dog off before you were damaged too much."
"You asked Velletri to talk to my Chinaman," I says.
"You don't listen to your Chinaman. You made Delvin look bad."
"He had to go all the way to the party chairman."
"So you see how it escalated? I did a small favor and it ends up I'm in debt to Ray Carrigan, not to mention Velletri and Delvin." He makes it sound like it's all my fault.
"You corrupted the police a little along the way, too," I says. "You got Pescaro, a good cop, to put three murders in a drawer."
"I didn't get him to do that," DiBella says, splitting the hair, making it clear he asked the favor but didn't execute the favor.
"Not murders," Tartaglia says, ready to dazzle us with what he knows about the law. "Homicides—"
"Shut up," DiBella says without even turning around.
Theresa takes her husband's hand and gives it a squeeze, telling him to quit while he's ahead.
"The father of my grandchildren is right," DiBella said. "There are no charges in these deaths that concern us. There's no evidence on which charges can be based."
"I found out some things. I can maybe find out more."
DiBella shakes his
head slowly. "No, no. Mr. Flannery. Don't you see you got nobody to take it to even if you dig up any gold? Don't you see there are too many people involved now who can't back down? Be smart. Better. Be wise."
I get up. The back of my legs feel like they're about to snap. I know what an old fighter who's lost his last fight feels like. I hate the way Tartaglia's raising his eyebrow at me and the way DiBella's even looking a little sorry for me. I walk across the twenty-thousand-dollar rug like I'm walking out of a boxing arena covered with old cigar butts, shuffling my feet, looking for a place to lick my wounds.
"Mr. Flannery," DiBella calls after me. I turn at the door.
"You got my marker."
"Mr. DiBella," I says, "I don't want to do business with you."
TWENTY-EIGHT
I put all the stuff I collected on the kitchen table. Mary and my old man look at it like it's stuff taken from the tomb of some ancient king.
I put down the picture of Helen Brickhouse I got from Captain Pescaro, which was taken after she's dead at the morgue. I put down the pieces of the snapshots and the enlargement I got from Flo Brickhouse, which was taken on her daughter's holiday visit to Atlantic City. The copy of the register from the hotel in Atlantic City and the deposition I got from the desk clerk goes next to them.
I got a deposition from Bo Addison what identifies Daniel Tartaglia as the man who came to see Helen at his place more than once, and another from Mavis Concord putting the finger on him, the guy what looks like Valentino.
There's the copy of the application for honorary deputy sheriff, which is signed by Daniel Tartaglia. And, finally, there's the badge, once issued to Daniel Tartaglia, which has been delivered to me with a note from Carrigan saying it came to his attention that I had an interest in such a badge with such a number and he wants me to know it's been an inactive badge for more than two years.
"So favors is still being asked, and still being delivered," Mike says.
"It don't never seem to end," I says.
"By this time everybody's scratching up the leaves, covering the messes what they made."
"They're still afraid of you, James," Mary says. "Still worried that you won't let go even now."
"This Tartaglia just about admitted . . ."
"Just about?" my old man says.
". . . that he done it."
"Can you make a case on just-about a man confesses? Can you make a case on depositions from a pimp and a whore? An affidavit from a desk clerk in Atlantic City who'd swear to anything for twenty bucks."
"He remembered."
"You want to tell me you didn't give him at least twenty bucks?" my old man says.
I don't say anything.
"And, yeah, a badge number which Mary remembered had a two on it which there are how many such numbers? One of which they are ready to swear has been out of circulation for two years?"
I feel like my mouth is filled with rusty iron. I'm biting the nail.
"There's three people dead," I says. "You can't leave me with just that and six bits for the altar candles."
"That's what they left you with, Jimmy," Mike says, just a prayer."
TWENTY-NINE
You'd think nobody cared much about that little whore what was killed. It looks like Helen Brickhouse is not even a memory, except to her mother and father, and maybe to me, after a month goes by.
I find out on the quiet that Daniel Tartaglia is being very good and has maybe even decided to settle down and enjoy family life. Especially since he finds out, like few men ever have the chance to find out, just how much his wife—the wife what he did so wrong by—is willing to forgive him.
But Bo Addison don't forget, because maybe he really cared some about Helen. And his brother the pimp don't forget because he was using her to maybe bring Tartaglia down, which would maybe bring Ogilvie down, which would maybe put the squeeze on Velletri so that the mayor and the party chairman figures it's time for a black alderman, like Addison, in the Twenty-fifth.
And I don't think Walter Streeter forgets because I'm pretty sure, after all's been said and done, that he's the one who keeps me informed about Helen Brickhouse every inch of the way because he wants Tartaglia out and himself in. Into DiBella's good graces. Into the heavy action on insurance cases. And into Theresa's bed.
"You blew the whistle on your good friend once," I says to Streeter.
We're sitting in the restaurant on State Street again, and Benny's just finished laying down our meals, steak for Streeter and sausages for me.
"When it don't take," I goes on, "you blow the whistle on him again, only you help his misbehavior along a little the second time by tossing Helen Brickhouse at him. You know what he likes. You write the script for her. In a way you're as much responsible for Helen's death and for Mrs. Klutzman's death as Tartaglia is."
He sets his face like he's going to protest.
"Don't explain me the law," I says before he can do so. "I know it and you know it."
"I truly never thought . . ." he says.
I wave the rest of it away. "I'll give it to you. You certainly never thought he'd go after the nurse what saw his face and kill another nurse by mistake. I'll give you that, but for the other, you were in it up to your neck."
"It's all over," he says, not mean or angry, just pointing out the facts of life.
"I want your help," I says.
"Yes?" he says, like he's waiting for his orders.
"You know how it goes," I says. "'Screw me once, shame on you. Screw me twice, shame on you. Screw me three times, shame on me.'"
"You're too far ahead of me."
"I wouldn't want to be the one what screws DiBella the third time," I says.
I see he's getting an inkling.
"You know and I know that your friend Danny ain't going to stay at home and true-blue forever. He's got an appetite and it don't go away. He'll be buying ass again."
"If he does, he'll buy it as far out of town or as deep under the covers as he can get," Streeter says.
"Oh, yes. And he'll need help to make connections. He'll need a middleman. He'll need you."
"Wait a minute . . ."
"He still don't know how you tried to give him the shaft. He still trusts you. He still trusts that pimp, Addison. He'll accept your good services."
He leans forward a little. What he wants and what I want is making us partners, if not pals.
"I know about a girl who just come in from Detroit. She's eighteen, maybe nineteen. She reminds me a little of Helen Brickhouse, but not too much like Helen Brickhouse."
"You in business with her?"
"Oh, no. Neither do I try to save her soul. She already knows what she wants to do. I tell her there's other ways, but she knows what she wants to do. I tell her to come to me if she gets in trouble. She comes to me the other night on a procuring. I see that she walks and I find her a room with Addison."
"Yes?" he says, and now we're conspirators.
"You talk your friend up, you work him up. You tell him he's got to live on hamburger, maybe forever, when all the time there's guys feasting on the biggest hot table in the world out there."
"Is that all I do?"
"You make the introduction. You maybe even loan them your apartment the first time so they should get it on with nobody the wiser. Along the way we move them to a flat, a little place with a hidden mike. A flat where we can take pictures if we have to. And then, one day, I put out the word. It whispers through the town. It gets to the ears of a man like DiBella, who makes it his business to hear everything and . . ."
THIRTY
The weatherman promises snow, but it's already spring and there ain't no snow. The day is warm with sun and clear skies.
They've fixed up the little stands on the court house steps and wrapped the rails with red, white, and blue bunting for Emmanuel Warnowski Day.
Mrs. Warnowski, wearing a new black dress an a hat with a veil, is sitting up there on the platform with Mooshie's fire captain, the fire chief,
the commissioner, Delvin, Ray Carrigan, half a dozen aldermen, a Polish priest . . . and the mayor.
I sit with Mary in the first row of the audience, which is not all that small, filled as it is with off-duty firemen and derelicts from my Twenty-seventh who maybe knew old Mooshie.
The priest says a prayer three times, once in Polish, once in Latin according to the old Mass for the dead, and once in English. I think how much quicker Rose Klutzman was sent to wherever souls are sent than the priest is sending old Warnowski.
After him comes Delvin, who goes on for some time about good public servants.
Next come the commissioner, who reads Mooshie's citation, which praises him for his fine display of courage when, while racing to a five-alarm fire, he deliberately crashes his car, thereby saving the lives of a nun and her class of parochial schoolgirls who is going back to school from an outing at the zoo.
The mayor hands the Widow Warnowski a medal, and there are a few happy tears. And it's over.
I feel a tap on my shoulder. Ray Carrigan, the party chairman, is standing there.
"Hello, Jimmy," he says. "Ain't it terrible what I read in the paper about Daniel Tartaglia?"
"It looks like somebody gave him back his badge," I says.
"It looks that way. Ain't it ironic he should get shot down in a house, in which working girls was allegedly plying their trade, by a pair of thieves?"
"Investigating, no doubt."
"No doubt."
"Ain't it lucky he wasn't in the room with one of them? The poor girl could've got killed as well."
"Well, God rest the poor man's soul."
"Amen," I says.
After Carrigan leaves, the mayor passes in front of me. His aide whispers in his ear. The mayor stops and looks me over. "So, you're Flannery, are you? I've got to hand it to you."
"Sir?"
"Mooshie Warnowski."
"A good man. A hero."
"Flannery," the mayor says, "you really can shovel it high."
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The Junkyard Dog (Jimmy Flannery Mysteries Book 1) Page 15
