"Sister Delia."
That rattled me. So far the case had fathers and daughters and cousins and all of Jackie Brill's relatives. Brothers and pets seemed to be all that was left. “¿Quién es?” I said.
"She used to be a nun, but she quit when the old pope died. She runs her own mission now, across from Most Holy Redeemer, and she ain’ so Christian about what she thinks of El Tigre."
* * * *
I don't know what I expected; a squat old dragon, probably, with a ruler in her fist and a prominent mustache. Sister Delia turned out to be a tall, handsome, horsy-looking woman with bobbed red hair and a grip best suited to a polo mallet. I shook circulation back into my fingers and sat in a shabby but clean armchair in a storefront whose plate-glass windows looked out on the Gothic pile of the church. Her coffee would float the Ark. I bit off a chunk and put cup and saucer on a folding card table.
"I haven't met Señor Merida,” she said cheerfully. “If he represents Zorboron, I'm not sure Christ Himself could keep him from the flames."
"That doesn't say much on my behalf. I'm trying to get the Tiger out of the pit."
"You're just misled. The residents of Mexicantown are honest and hardworking—that whole cliché—and they're raising a generation whose accomplishments will establish whole new stereotypes, like the ones Asians enjoy now, as thinkers and innovators. The only thing that can stop them is prejudice. A gangbanger like Zorboron feeds that with every breath he takes."
"You don't think he can be saved?"
"I don't. That's where I parted with the Vatican. I stayed on from loyalty, but when the guard changed I got out. Cock fights; can you think of any symbol more demeaning to a people?"
"He isn't in for that."
That didn't pierce her armor. She sat in a cracked plastic scoop chair with her long legs crossed in pleated slacks. The mission seemed to be a place where the poor and homeless came in from the weather to thaw their veins with hot soup and that nerve-shredding coffee and listen to Scripture in Spanish. It was a nice day, and we had it all to ourselves.
"His daughter thinks he was set up,” I said. “I think so too. Did you know Jackie Brill?"
"He tried to rent this building for his filthy exhibition,” she said. “When I said no, he offered me a cut of the take. He spouted some nonsense about having to get to know it for the sport it is. He left when I threatened to call the police."
"He made me the same pitch."
"You see what I'm talking about? Zorboron's plague has spread to the white suburbs. He's the worst thing to happen to the Chicano image since Pancho Villa."
"You're not Chicano, are you?"
Her smile chilled the steam off my coffee. “I'm one of those white liberal meddlers you hear so much about; the people the KKK hate more than themselves. What about you?"
"Just a meddler. When did Brill approach you?"
"Last week. If you think I killed him and cut him up and dumped him at Zorboron's door, thank you for the compliment. I'm not that devious, but if I were I'd have done it just for the way Brill treated Carmelita. She's a sweet girl."
"You know her?"
"Everyone knows everyone here. Most of them came from the same three villages. Sooner or later they all showed up at Most Holy Redeemer."
"Did she go there to confess?"
"Technically, I can't say. I never saw her use a booth."
"Technically, bees can't fly,” I said. “Let's put that word aside."
"A doctor knows medicine, but a nurse knows patients. It's the same with priests and nuns. People would trust me with things they'd never tell the father. I won't violate that just because I no longer wear the habit."
"You'd make a good lawyer."
The smile evaporated. “These days anyone can be a lawyer; anyone at all. Being a nun takes cojones."
* * * *
I had everything now but a motive, and I could guess at that. It was some kind of record for me in an investigative quagmire like murder. But it's a small community, where events take place in closer order than they do out in the world. I called Felipe Quintas de la Merida and agreed to meet him and Carmelita in his office.
It was above a garage around the corner from Nolo Suiz's restaurant, close enough to smell the hot grease and cilantro. Merida's diploma hung in a frame on imitation wood paneling behind an easy-assembly desk. I figured the second door led to his living quarters. Today he wore a lightweight gray suit off the big-and-tall rack and a dark blue shirt-and-tie set that made him look like a bouncer in one of the better strip clubs north of the county line. Carmelita, in a yellow dress and open-toed pumps, sat facing me on the customer's side with her hair up. She looked drawn, and pretty as end of day.
"Nice setup,” I said. “What goes on downstairs?"
Merida didn't stir behind his desk. “They fix cars. We don't stage cockfights in Mexicantown anymore. It's become a suburban sport."
"Outsourcing. Very American. I don't guess Jackie Brill made himself any more popular than always when he tried to reintroduce it to the neighborhood."
Carmelita perked up. “He did? Do you think that's why he was killed?"
"No, it was over you. The police are right about that."
She drooped.
"Who told you Brill wanted to do that?” asked the lawyer.
"Sister Delia."
I'd picked a spot where I could watch both their reactions. Merida's face was an adobe wall. Carmelita's fell apart in little pieces. I decided to start with her.
"He tried to cut a deal to use her mission,” I said. “She was a hard sell. She's not exactly an aficionado, but she was even less inclined because of you. You were a lot more forthcoming with her than you were with me. All I knew was you and Brill had a history."
She gripped the arms of her chair. “She swore she wouldn't—"
Merida broke in. “You covered a lot of ground in a day."
"It isn't Acapulco. You can do the place in an hour.” I was still looking at the young woman.
"It was a scare,” she said before the lawyer could speak again. “I was—late. He offered to make all the arrangements. He insisted. He said he'd pay for everything. I reminded him I'm a Catholic. He threatened me. He was terrified, I could see that. He knew Papa would kill him if he found out."
"Carmelita—” Merida began.
"Did he hit you?"
"No. He was afraid to go that far.” The pieces came back together. She was the Tiger's child. “But you know that, if you spoke with Sister Delia."
"She kept your confidence. I've been working this job since before you were born. I get the most I can out of what little I get."
"¡Bruto!” Merida's face showed color for the first time. “She's your client, not a defendant on trial."
"They're all on trial until I separate them from their lies and omissions. She held back the pregnancy because she knew it was the best motive on earth for a father to kill an unwanted suitor. She said it herself; that's why Brill was desperate to terminate it on the q.t. What happened?"
"It was a false alarm,” she said. “I was just—late. But the episode determined me to end the relationship.” Her accent was softer now. She'd given up on playing the heiress apparent.
"That explains how he found the grit to go ahead and try to buy Prince Cortez through me. It also leaves only one person with reason enough to kill Jackie and the skill to process him like prime rib.” I looked at Merida. “Sister Delia said anyone can be a lawyer. She wasn't speaking generally, was she?"
"Cuidado, amigo.” The big man's tone was at low idle. “You're coming close to grounds for action."
"I've been sued before,” I said, “if that's the action you mean. You've got the doublespeak down, but you'll never be a successful criminal attorney if you think the cops are dumb enough to arrest Zorboron's cousin just because you ditched the body behind his restaurant. You were loyal enough to the Tiger to try to implicate his most outspoken rival; but that would just be a collateral benefit, wou
ldn't it? How long have you been in love with Carmelita?"
He laughed. The noise lacked resonance of his speech and had a nasty little rattle in it.
"Felipe?” Carmelita was staring at him.
"Remain calm. He swings his machete in the dark.” It had the sound of an Old Country saying.
"No good, Flip. She knows. I knew, too, but I was too busy being sure Zorboron was guilty to read anything into the little things like the way you hold doors and chairs for her. Sister Delia knew because Carmelita told her. There's no other explanation for why she'd drag out that remark about lawyers when the subject came up."
"Felipe.” She wasn't questioning him now. The syllables came out in a slow snarl of accusation.
I said, “You and Emiliano worked in the same meatpacking plant when you were kids. You never forget your first job or how to do it."
The desk erupted, coming up and over and almost clipping me before I could jump out of my chair. I knew he'd have strength, but I'd misjudged his speed. But Carmelita was slower to react. The near edge of the desk landed in her lap and the momentum threw her chair over onto its back with her still in it. She screamed, a clear, bell-like, south-of-the-border cry like you only hear now in old movies about lusty banditos and dancing señoritas, drowned out before it hit its peak by a horrified roar as Merida saw what he'd done and lunged across the desk to catch it before it pinned her to the floor.
He made it with an inch to spare and time for me to draw down on him where he stood clutching the heavy piece of furniture with his great arms strained to the limits of their tendons.
* * * *
We sat on the stoop in front of the door to his office, which belonged to the garage above which Felipe Merida had practiced law until yesterday. Zorboron conducted business inside only when rain or cold prevented him from making high-interest loans and promises from that concrete pedestal sprayed all over with graffiti in Spanish. I was in my shirtsleeves, the Tiger in a black T-shirt that showed raw muscle stretched over bone with no flesh to spare. The day was warm, not precisely Indian summer because we hadn't had a frost yet, but nice enough for two acquaintances to drink Dos Equis from the bottle on the street, knowing there wouldn't be many like it for a long time.
"He was the friend of my youth,” he said. “He should have told me of his intentions toward my daughter."
I said, “He hadn't any, apart from mooning around in her orbit until she found someone closer to her age and type. You'd have taken even that away if he'd opened his mouth."
"Yes, but he should have showed me the respect. Carmelita is different. She tells me nothing and I know less."
"Congratulations. That makes you an American dad. She knew how he felt without his having to tell her. Women are born with that talent, both sides of the Rio Grande."
"Poor Felipe. I would help him if it were not for my problems with Immigration."
"He's confessed. He'll get off with less than a life sentence if Brill's rich relatives stay out of it. I think they've made all the noise they're going to. He's off their hands, and they don't have to pay him any more to keep him off."
He swigged beer. “I cannot even reimburse you."
"We're square. I've got Prince Cortez, don't forget. I don't think you're stupid enough to fight him with Uncle Sam watching, and he'll be past his prime by the time you jump through the last hoop in Washington."
"Will you fight him?” He looked at me. It was the first time I'd seen his eyebrows move more than a bubble off level.
I scratched my hand. The cut was starting to heal. “I spend most of my day in a sweaty little room. I don't want to spend my nights in one. My building super has family out in farm country. His Highness can perch on a fence and annoy the neighbors at sunrise."
"You are an animal lover?"
"Only the ones with fur and cold noses. I thought about eating him, but he's too stringy."
"I do not see the profit to you."
"I told your daughter at the start my books are in good shape. I got some sun and found good takeout across the street. I don't think I want to eat in your cousin's place. He told me he grinds the meat for his burritos. Authentic Mexican cooks shred theirs."
"He is Bolivian on his father's side.” Zorboron chipped at the label on his bottle with a manicured thumb. “I, too, am disenchanted with the spectacle of birds mauling one another for the entertainment of imbeciles. It does not suit a man of standing in his community. I will be disappointed if after all you have said you take advantage of my withdrawal to mount an enterprise of your own."
"You'll have to trust me on that."
"This thing I will do.” He offered me the hand with the tattoo. We shook.
Copyright © 2007 Loren D. Estleman
[Back to Table of Contents]
THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by Willie Rose
Each letter consistently represents another. The quotation is from a short mystery story. Arranging the answer letters in alphabetical order gives a clue to the title of the story.
T UQC LQZ WVNQ, DVPQZNWFQZ. QFQV CLWDOL T RVQG GLKC ALQ GKA DX CW, KBCQZ CQV UTVDCQA T'P LKFQ OTFQV LQZ CLQ PQQP CW UI LWDAQ.
—VKWUT MQSS
CIPHER: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
[Back to Table of Contents]
STEP ON A CRACK by DAVID EDGERLEY GATES
* * * *
Ron Chironna
* * * *
The docks were union. Scabs were beaten bloody, and there was no second chance.
It's said things come in threes, a run of good luck at cards, a run of bad luck in love. But the penny doesn't always drop until the third time around. The first event might be something you don't take much notice of. The second thing seems somehow familiar, even if you can't quite put a name to it. But come the third time, you snap your mental fingers and tell yourself, I knew that.
Benny Siegel had been dead a year now. The story was that Benny's murder had been sanctioned at a meeting of the capos in Havana—they met in Cuba because it was the closest Lucky Luciano could get to the States—but there was another tale altogether making the rounds, which was that Benny had been sidelined by an unnamed third party, not connected with the mob at all. In any event, the murder of Bugsy Siegel wasn't the important thing decided or not in Havana. Luciano, living in Sicily, was moving poppy from Turkey to the heroin refineries in Marseilles. He wanted to open the American market.
The old-time bosses like Frank Costello and Joe Adonis had always held out against the drug trade. They didn't see what me sainted Da would have called the hand-wringing on the wall. What happened in late ‘48 and early ‘49 was the beginning of the end of the old order, although none of us saw it coming. A couple of years later, when Costello was up in front of Kefauver's committee, blinking in the glare of the television lights, a lot of us were scurrying from subpoenas. But that was after.
It all started to come apart with the dock strike in 1948. What you might call the law of unintended consequences.
* * * *
Mind you, this wasn't how it seemed at the time, and to tell you the truth, my concerns were otherwise engaged.
"Mickey,” Young Tim Hannah says to me. “I've a job of work for you."
This was nothing out of the ordinary, as I'd been in the service of the Hannah syndicate since the Armistice of 1918, starting out as a wee lad carrying policy slips and working my way up to bare knuckles for Old Tim, the boss as was, who'd run the West Side rackets for thirty years. He'd died the previous Christmas, and his son took the miter. They say you could see the white smoke coming up from Jack Sharkey's when Young Tim was elevated to his father's place.
"I need you to broker an accommodation,” he began, but then he hung fire, seeming oddly reticent to go on, as if it might be awkward or embarrassing.
I said nothing, since I had no notion where he was headed. “I want to make an approach to Desmond Morrissey,” he said, bringing it out all at once, sort of breathless.
My jaw went sl
ack. Des Morrissey was a fire-breathing Fenian of the deepest dye, a man whose tribal memory went back to the Battle of the Boyne and beyond, to Cromwell, to the torment of Ulster under the Tudors. He was an IRA bagman and was rumored to be a gunrunner, but I could imagine him making no possible accommodation with the criminal class. We were, in his view, contemptible, the worst kind of assimilated Irish, who took tainted money and preyed on our own.
"Arrange a meeting for me,” Young Tim said. “A social occasion, if at all possible. This doesn't require muscle. I'd like to try and gain the man's confidence."
There was something in this I didn't feature, and Young Tim obviously wanted me to work blind. He'd never trust me with a commission that gave me the edge on him. As a holdover from his father's day, he didn't reside full confidence in me. But he knew I was loyal to my own people and would never fall in with the Italians, God help us all, or the darkies. I smelled a devious purpose here, although not necessarily a wicked one.
"It's a matter of some delicacy, Mickey,” he said.
I wasn't a delicate man, but I didn't have to remind him.
* * * *
Now, at this time, I was what the Italians call a caporegime, a lieutenant. I ran a crew of my own. It wasn't all strong-arm stuff, although that's what I had a name for. Much of it was simple fetch and carry, going back to my early days in the numbers, even if these days the lads reported to me, and I was the hardcase they lived in fear of. But we learn from our struggles, and my discipline was never arbitrary, only necessary. We'd come up in a rough school. People like to pretend they're removed from violence, but I never saw a choice. It simply wasn't offered.
If this seems something off the point, I should explain that the character of a man like Des Morrissey was similar to mine, although I'm sure he'd be one to give you an argument. We answered to different necessities, but we both recognized the fact of our obligation. Morrissey's discipline was political, a cause other men had bled and died for, as Des would be the first to tell you. My livelihood was less priestly but no less round and no less genuine. There was more ambiguity to it, I grant you; Morrissey's devotion admitted of no ambiguity. I will say, though, that I admired Des Morrissey's ferocity, even though I felt it misguided. It lacked self-interest, and I find an abundance of self-disregard suspect.
AHMM, June 2007 Page 7
