by J. L. Abramo
“I’m not leaving until this is over and I know Vinnie is okay, Tom,” Darlene said. “There’s a bar here in the hotel. You can join me down there if you like.”
“We’ll be there,” said Tom as they pulled in front of the hotel. “Boyle is on his way up.”
A few minutes later, Ray Boyle rapped on the door of suite 712. He carried a small shoulder bag.
“Be cool, Vinnie,” Darlene said, “but not too cool.”
Darlene opened the door for Boyle.
“Don’t let anything happen to him, Ray,” she said as she came out into the hall.
Boyle went into the room and Darlene headed down to meet Tom and Eddie at the bar.
There were two rooms in suite 712. The sleeping area was separated from the entry room by a dividing wall with a wide door.
“This is perfect,” said Boyle. “He won’t do anything threatening at first, Vinnie. He’ll want to get his hands on the documents with as little coaxing as possible, and the simplest way is to let you hand them over. Don’t ask to see the money; he’s not coming here to pay off. When he asks for the papers, tell him they’re in the bedroom. Walk in and get out of the way. I’ll take it from there.”
Boyle pulled the gun from his shoulder harness. He took a silencer from his jacket pocket and screwed it onto the end of the barrel.
Vinnie stared at the weapon.
“Jesus, Ray,” Vinnie said, “I didn’t realize that the LAPD used those things.”
“We’re not in Los Angeles,” said Boyle. “Come on. We’d better wait in the far room.”
The knocking on the door came just past eight. Vinnie went and opened the door; the man standing there held a small rope-handled shopping bag.
“Mr. Kearney?” he said.
“Yes, are you Lansdale?”
“I’m here on behalf of Mr. Lansdale,” the man said. “Can I get in out of the hallway.”
“Sure,” said Vinnie, “come in.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kearney,” the man said, coming into the front room.
Vinnie closed the door and followed.
“What do I call you?” asked Vinnie.
“You can call me Tucker,” the man said, “and I’m in a bit of a hurry, Mr. Kearney. Do you have the papers that Mr. Lansdale asked me to pick up?”
“Sure,” said Vinnie. “I have them in the other room. Give me a minute.”
Vinnie Strings walked into the far room. Tucker pulled a silenced gun from the shopping bag. Ray Boyle stepped into the connecting doorway. Ray held his arms fully extended, his gun held in both hands. He locked on Tucker’s face. Boyle was about to speak when he caught a glimpse of Tucker’s hand, and Tucker’s gun, coming up.
There were two muted gunshots. Boyle was knocked into the bedroom, landing on his back. His weapon hit the floor and slid toward Vinnie. Vinnie grabbed the gun, sat on the floor beside Ray’s body, and pointed the weapon at the open doorway. His hands were trembling. When he felt another hand cover his, Vinnie nearly pulled the trigger.
“Easy, Vinnie,” Ray Boyle whispered, sitting up. “Let me have the gun.”
Boyle took the gun from Vinnie’s hand and slowly rose to his feet, motioning to Vinnie to stay down. Boyle stood at the side of the open doorway and cautiously looked into the other room. Tucker was face down on the carpet, his weapon on the floor less than a foot away. Boyle slowly moved to the body, kicked the weapon away, and turned the body over. There was a clean bullet hole in the center of Tucker’s forehead.
“So much for taking him alive,” Ray said as Vinnie came up behind him.
“Great shot, Lieutenant,” said Vinnie.
“Pure luck,” Boyle said, taking off his jacket and undoing his shirt buttons to reveal the Kevlar vest; when he took that off, Vinnie saw a large red welt at the center of his chest. Ray replaced his shirt and jacket, pulled a plastic bag from his jacket pocket and a handkerchief from his pants, and moved to Tucker’s gun.
“Packs a punch,” Boyle said, bagging the gun. “Vinnie, go down to the hotel bar and join the others. Take that shopping bag. I’ll clean up this mess.”
“Can I help, Lieutenant?”
“No, thanks, Vinnie, you did fine,” said Ray. “When you get down to the bar, I want you all to leave the hotel. Go back to Eddie’s place. Tell Darlene that I’ll call you there when I’m done.”
Vinnie picked up the shopping bag and left the room.
Ray Boyle got to work.
Wednesday evening. San Francisco.
Carmella sat in her playpen, having a chat with her new stuffed animal from FAO Schwarz. Connie and Angela washed the supper dishes while waiting for the coffee to brew. Joey Russo and Sonny sat talking in front of the television, the Giants game in the background.
“Have you heard from Ray Boyle?” Sonny asked.
“Not yet. It should go down by ten their time.”
“And if it goes well?”
“I’ll leave for Chicago in the morning,” Joey said.
Connie set a plate of pastries on the dining-room table. Angela followed her in from the kitchen with the pot of espresso.
“Would you like your coffee in there?” Angela called.
“No,” answered Joey, “we’ll come to the table.”
“Sonny, bring the baby in with you,” said Connie.
Sonny reached into the playpen and lifted Carmella into his arms.
“Graff,” she said, clinging to the stuffed animal.
“That’s right, sweetheart,” said Sonny, “giraffe.”
Sonny looked at Joey with concern as they moved to the dining room.
“I’ll be all right,” Joey said.
Wednesday night. Chicago.
Ray Boyle had little choice.
He walked out onto the small terrace of the hotel suite; it looked down on an empty courtyard. Boyle went back to the body, dragged it onto the terrace, and lifted it over the rail. He let go and watched just long enough to see the body hit the ground. He went back inside and checked the rooms.
He folded the bulletproof vest and put it into his shoulder bag along with Tucker’s gun. Boyle was confident that ballistics testing would tie the weapon to the Stan Riddle and Harry Chandler shootings. He would have to call in a few markers, favors owed to him within the department, to have the testing done discreetly. Explaining how he came by the murder weapon would be difficult.
Boyle took a final look around the suite and went down to the hotel lobby to call Darlene.
“Jesus, Ray, are you okay?”
“Yes, Darlene, and I’d rather skip the details,” Ray said. “I have enough time to catch the last flight back to L.A.; I’ll grab a taxi to O’Hare from here. Do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Give Joey Russo a call. Tell him what happened.”
“I will, Ray. Thanks for your help.”
“Yeah, well, I did what I had to do,” said Ray. “Good luck with the rest of it. Take care.”
Darlene called Joey Russo and told him how it had gone.
“Thankfully, none of the good guys got hurt,” Russo said. “I’ll be up there tomorrow. I’ll phone when I’m ready to hook up with you.”
“All right,” Darlene said. “Tom Romano and Vinnie will be flying back to San Francisco late tomorrow morning. Eddie will continue to monitor the office phone from the garage.”
“Okay, Darlene, make sure the flowers are delivered to Lansdale’s office first thing in the morning,” Russo said. “You know how the card should read.”
“I do and I will,” said Darlene.
“Good.”
“How is Jake doing?” asked Darlene.
“I haven’t spoken to Jake, I thought I’d let him alone for a few days.”
“Well, maybe I’ll give him a quick phone call,” said Darlene.
“Sure,” said Joey. “Why don’t you do that.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Joey.”
“Good,” Joey said.
Wednesday night. San Francisc
o.
Jake Diamond closed the paperback, drank what remained of the Dickel in his glass, and crushed out his cigarette.
He had spent a few hours at the office earlier in the day, taken a couple of calls, set up several meetings with prospective clients for the following week.
Going through the motions.
Acting exactly as if all of this business with Max Lansdale would be over and done by week’s end.
Diamond couldn’t decide on espresso or bed.
Jake wished he had someone to talk with. Casual talk. A distraction more animated than the worn pages of a paperback Russian novel, more interactive than the thirty-one-inch Sony TV. Less incoherent than the voices in his head.
When the telephone rang, he jumped at it.
“Hello.”
“Hey, partner.”
“Hey, Darlene,” Jake said, “I’m real glad that you called.”
Twenty-Five
Thursday morning. New York.
The intercom button on Vito Ventura’s phone blinked.
“Yes, Maggie?”
“Mr. Badalamenti is on the phone, Mr. Ventura.”
“Put him through,” Ventura said. He waited for the call to be transferred and greeted Badalamenti.
“Mr. Ventura,” Sonny said. “I would like to take you up on your offer of gratitude.”
“I’ll do what I can, Mr. Badalamenti,” Ventura said, hoping to settle the debt. “What did you have in mind?”
“Have you heard from Lansdale?”
“He’s called a few times. I’m avoiding him. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“I did,” Sonny said, “but the next time he calls, I would like you to speak to him. Lansdale won’t admit to you that he’s lost track of your money, but he’ll want to ask about me. Tell Lansdale that you’ve never heard of me and ask him when you can expect to receive your end of the transaction. Show impatience; give Lansdale a deadline, a subtle ultimatum.”
“Are you certain that this won’t backfire?” Ventura asked.
“Absolutely,” said Sonny. “Max Lansdale is going to be very busy for the next few days trying to save his skin. I assure you, as I did earlier, Lansdale will cause you no trouble. And if you can do this for me, you’ll never need to deal with him again.”
“And will I ever need to deal with you again, Mr. Badalamenti?” asked Ventura.
“You can forget that we ever met, Mr. Ventura,” Sonny said. “I’ll do the same.”
“I’ll do my best to rattle his cage,” said Ventura.
“Thank you,” said Sonny.
Thursday morning. Chicago.
Max Lansdale came into his office suite at nine. Darlene looked up from the reception desk.
“Good morning, Mr. Lansdale, sir,” Darlene said. “You received flowers this morning. I put them in water. Would you like me to move them into your office?”
“Was there a card?”
“Yes, there was,” said Darlene. “The card is sitting next to the flowers in the kitchenette. Would you like me to get it for you?”
“I can get it myself,” said Lansdale.
“And the flowers?” asked Darlene.
“The hell with the flowers,” Lansdale said. “Have you been calling the hotel for Badalamenti?”
“Twice already this morning, Mr. Lansdale. Nothing.”
“Keep trying. And let me know if Mr. Ventura calls,” Lansdale said, moving to the small kitchen.
He grabbed the card and disappeared into his private office.
Lansdale tore open the small envelope and read the card:
“Ghost Bar. Randolph Street. Three this afternoon. Bring 20,000.”
Lansdale examined the note again. He wasn’t mistaken. It read “20,000.” Unless he was being afforded an unexpected discount, which he seriously doubted, something had gone wrong.
He tore up the card and flung it into the wastebasket. He sat at the desk debating whether or not to try calling Vito Ventura again.
Thursday morning. Chicago.
The receptionist rang the desk of Jack LoBianco.
“Yes?”
“A phone call for you, Mr. LoBianco.”
“Who?”
“The gentleman wouldn’t identify himself, sir,” said the receptionist. “He would only say it was important and that it has to do with your aunt, Mrs. Lansdale.”
“Put the call through,” LoBianco said.
“Mr. LoBianco?”
“Who is this?”
“I need to speak with Anna Lansdale. I plan to visit her at eleven this morning. I wanted to let you know.”
“Who is this? And what is this about?”
“My name wouldn’t mean anything to you, Mr. LoBianco; hopefully it will mean something to Mrs. Lansdale. And my business is personal; I need to speak to your aunt face-to-face.”
“My aunt is eighty-four years old. I’m sure that she has no interest in your personal business,” said LoBianco. “And you will not bother her, whoever the fuck you are. Is that understood?”
“I only called as a courtesy. I will be visiting Mrs. Lansdale’s home at eleven. If you feel that you need to be there, I will see you then.”
The line went dead.
“What the fuck,” LoBianco said aloud, then buzzed the receptionist.
“Yes, sir?”
“Cancel my appointments. Please ring the garage and ask them to get my car ready,” LoBianco said, glancing at his wristwatch. “Tell them I’ll be down in ten minutes.”
Thursday. Late morning. New York and Chicago.
“Yes, Maggie?”
“It’s Mr. Lansdale on the telephone, Mr. Ventura. He sounds very eager to talk with you. Are you in?”
“Yes, Maggie, please put him through.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Max,” said Ventura, picking up the call, “how was Connecticut? Did Paul Sacco treat you right?”
“Terrific, Vito,” said Lansdale. “Paul treated me like royalty.”
“Good. Sorry I haven’t returned your calls, I’ve been swamped. What can I do for you?”
“I wondered if you could tell me how to get hold of Sonny Badalamenti.”
“I don’t know a Sonny Badalamenti, Max.”
Lansdale nearly lost his ability to speak.
“I met him at the casino, Vito; he mentioned that he knew you,” Lansdale was finally able to choke out.
“A lot of people know me up there, Max,” said Ventura. “It’s hard to keep track of everyone I meet.”
“I suppose that it would be,” was all Lansdale could manage.
“If I met Mr. Badalamenti at one time or another, I don’t recall. Is there some kind of problem, Max?”
“No, not at all, Vito.”
“Because I checked the accounts this morning, and I didn’t find a deposit.”
“There was a little delay on this end, nothing to worry about.”
“It’s when someone tells me there’s nothing to worry about that I begin to worry, Max,” said Ventura. “Can I expect to see the transfer showing up by tomorrow?”
“Sure, Vito, no problem,” said Lansdale. “It should be taken care of by tomorrow afternoon.”
“I’d rather hear you say that it will be, Max.”
“It will be, Vito.”
“Good. You know how much my people dislike being disappointed.”
“I do,” said Lansdale.
“Good. Take it easy, Max. Speak to you soon.”
The line went dead.
Lansdale slammed down the receiver.
In the garage below, Eddie Hand’s ears rang.
Lansdale stormed out of his office. “I’m going out. I don’t know when I’ll be back,” he grunted as he passed Darlene at her desk.
“Should I keep trying the hotel for Mr. Badalamenti?” she asked.
Lansdale left the suite without answering. He rode the elevator down and went directly to the bank.
He could come up with the twenty thousand in cash for his m
eeting at three, but the two hundred grand for Ventura and the hundred grand to purchase the documents from Jake Diamond were another story. And that story was only twenty-four hours away.
Lansdale put his head down against the wind and tried to think about something else, but he could not think of a single other thing.
He walked up the drive to the front door of the house. It was a small mansion in the Astor Street district north of downtown Chicago, with a view of Lake Michigan.
As he pressed the doorbell, he adjusted the collar of his coat.
Jack LoBianco answered the door, entirely prepared to remove the intruder physically if necessary. He was momentarily halted by the visitor’s commanding appearance. The man at the front door was tall and strikingly handsome. He wore his graying hair short; his suit was expensive and perfectly tailored; his full-length coat was cashmere.
“Mr. LoBianco, I spoke with you on the phone earlier,” said the man. “I’m here to see Mrs. Lansdale.”
“And I told you earlier that it wouldn’t be possible,” said LoBianco. “Now, either you leave on your own or I can have you escorted.”
The man slowly raised his hand, unthreateningly. He held an envelope.
“Mr. LoBianco, I understand your wanting to protect your aunt,” said the man. “I find it commendable. I only ask that you show this note to her and let her decide if she will see me or not. I would not forget your consideration.”
“And you won’t tell me who you are or what this is about?” asked LoBianco.
“With all respect, I would prefer that Mrs. Lansdale decide whom to share this with,” the man said, holding the envelope out to LoBianco.
LoBianco looked at the envelope and then up into the visitor’s eyes. After a moment of hesitation, he took the envelope.
“Wait here,” LoBianco said.
He moved back into the house, closing the front door behind him.
The man waited on the porch for a full ten minutes, gazing out over the lake. The front door opened and Jack LoBianco ushered him in.
