Arnold hunkered down so his head was at the height of the base of the window: his eyes could see out but almost all of his body was hidden by the brick wall. A perfect spot. He glanced at his watch and saw it was nearly two. Chances were Mendoza wouldn’t show until evening. Arnold wished he’d eaten something before coming over here. He felt ill-prepared for the afternoon’s wait. He cupped his hands and lit a smoke, just as soldiers did in the trenches back in the day.
The second hour was always the easiest, he found. Arnold took a while to get comfortable and not notice the conditions surrounding him. Only then did he occupy the right headspace to last a tedious amount of time.
He twisted his wrist so he could view the face of his watch. Nearly four and nada. Another stare out the window. The goons out front had swapped with fellas from inside about thirty minutes before and that was the only excitement since Arnold had sat down. If this was a normal day’s business then Arnold would have contained his impatience. Almost all his working life was spent sitting and doing nothing.
This time things were different: there was no payoff, just revenge. But this wasn’t his vengeance - he was merely the agent of death. Arnold knew the real difference was that now he cared. Mendoza deserved to die for kidnapping the twins. Just wasn’t right to steal children because a drug meet didn’t go his way.
Times were changing - for the worse. He couldn’t decide if it was the immense profit that came from the white powder which caused bad decisions or if the caliber of fella was going downhill, anyway. Probably a mix of the two: easy money can be made if you’re able to get bankrolled. And a fast buck attracts the wrong sort of dude to the business. It spirals from there, he mused.
As these ideas permeated his thoughts, Arnold continued to stare out the window. The front door opened a crack and three men appeared. Two were dressed like locals but the one in the middle had a three piece suit and wore an air of superiority: Sancho Mendoza - kiddy kidnapper.
Arnold stayed put until he was certain which route they intended to take. Then he slithered out the back and caught up with them, remaining a safe four hundred feet behind at all times. He lost count how many blocks they walked down but he had to catch himself because they stopped. Looked like a restaurant and Mendoza went in, leaving one guy at the front entrance. Arnold guessed the other went to the rear to secure the venue without having to cramp Mendoza’s appetite while he ate.
Arnold lit another cigarette and eyeballed the joint before making his move. He walked up to the place and entered, careful not to brush past the goon waiting for Mendoza. For someone whose job was to keep Mendoza out of harm’s way, the guy failed at his first opportunity to earn his wages for the day.
Roach, professional assassin, took a table ten feet from him and ordered a steak. He was hungry and after he murdered Mendoza, he’d have no time for food until he’d left the city. And he wasn’t prepared to wait that long.
37
LINGUINE, POSSIBLY WITH clams, was plonked in front of Mendoza. He tucked his napkin into his shirt collar and stuffed pasta into his mouth. Before Arnold had time to chew more than a handful of bites, Mendoza’s bowl was empty and he mopped up any remaining sauce with pieces of bread. He almost looked Italian.
Arnold glared at his steak and then raised his gaze to keep watch on Mendoza. A bus boy removed the bowl and two minutes later, a waiter delivered a dessert menu, which his prey perused and then threw down. He couldn’t tell if he would have time to finish his meal or rush out the door with his stomach more or less empty and Mendoza very much alive and back surrounded by his protection detail.
The answer came from a moment’s conversation with the waiter and the subsequent delivery of a cup of coffee and some cutlery. Arnold breathed easy and set about attacking the meat waiting under his nose. It was on the chewy side and if he hadn’t been working, he’d have sent it back. The fries were okay and the ketchup helped him swallow the gristle served alongside them.
A portion of apple pie with a miniature jug of cream was delivered to Mendoza, who drowned the pastry with the white liquid. Here was a man who did not eat for pleasure, just for fuel. Arnold finished picking at his steak and asked for a coffee and the check. That way he could leave whenever he needed without making a scene or having to rush.
As he sipped the hot colored water, Arnold saw Mendoza for what he was: a street punk made good, funded by the mob, but with no style to call his own. Just another goon in an ill-fitting suit, selling dreams down the river in small packets containing a little brown powder.
The three-piece stood up and headed to the back of the restaurant. For a second, Arnold panicked because he thought Mendoza was leaving. A glance at the table showed a bill with no payment. Either he was pulling a fast one - unlikely - or he was about to hit the head.
Arnold stood up, making sure he’d left a big enough tip - not so generous for him to be remembered and not so tight to be recalled when the cops came calling. Twenty per cent and not a penny more. He wended his way around and past all the tables until he faced a corridor with a pair of signs: men and women. He opened the right-hand door and stepped inside.
The cramped room comprised a urinal, two sinks and two cubicles. Mendoza stood next to another guy at the urinal and both doors to the cubicles were ajar. Arnold waited as though a cubicle was an inappropriate place to take a piss. When the civilian finished, Arnold stepped up, barely two feet away from his target.
He ensured his head remained pointing at the wall in front, but Arnold kept his eyes fixed on Mendoza all the time. The man’s hands stayed by his groin until the trickling sound abated, then the usual jiggling and Arnold heard the zip go back up.
Like every man before him, Mendoza turned his back on Arnold as he vacated his position at the urinal. And that was when Arnold Roach struck.
He used one hand to punch Mendoza in a kidney and the other to grab his mouth and yank the head backward. Mendoza lost his footing for a moment, due to the surprise of the attack, but had the presence of mind - or pure instinct - to reach up and cling onto Roach’s arm as it reduced his supply of oxygen.
In response, Roach gave him another punch - this time in the small of his back - before moving the fist to Mendoza’s face and pinching his nose. He scrambled with both arms flailing, hoping to catch Roach out or get some purchase on a limb. Roach held firm and pushed his feet into the tiled floor. Then he raised both hands two inches so Mendoza was forced to go on tiptoe to breathe.
That was Roach’s mistake, because Mendoza used the opportunity to kick back with a heel into Roach’s leg. Despite himself, Roach released him and Mendoza spun round, fists punching. One thump landed on the side of Roach’s head, right by the ear, and he stumbled before regaining his balance. Mendoza ran for the door, aware that help was only a few feet away.
Roach slammed his arm into the back of Mendoza’s skull, causing it to ricochet into a cubicle door. The three-piece turned round, blood dripping from his forehead and left cheek. He lunged at Roach, who sidestepped and let him crash to the floor. A swift boot to the groin and Roach picked up Mendoza by the lapels, punched him in the face and dragged him to the sinks. With one hand grasping a bunch of hair, Roach pummeled Mendoza’s face into a faucet. He screamed briefly but Roach continued until the body fell limp.
He dropped the corpse on the floor, bent down to check the pulse and then listened hawk-like for any movement outside. Nothing apart from the clatter of plates and customer conversation.
Roach dragged Mendoza’s corpse into a cubicle, forcing limbs and torso into the narrow confines. Then he closed the door, allowing the body to fall forward, preventing anyone from discovering the cubicle’s dark secret. Roach kicked a hand back under, which was sticking out from the front. He grabbed some towels and made a cursory attempt to clean up the red mess he’d generated. Then he checked himself in the bathroom mirror, straightened his tie and tucked his shirt into his pants.
As he made his way through the restaurant, Arnold stopped b
y Mendoza’s table and threw some green down. That way, staff would be even less inclined to go searching as they’d assume he’d paid and went. Or they would hold that belief until someone wanted to have a shit.
He pushed open the front door just as Mendoza’s gorilla walked inside. Perhaps his boss had spent longer than normal. Maybe Arnold was paranoid. Either way, he turned left and sauntered down the block, knowing that Sancho Mendoza slept with the fishes.
Down the street and Arnold only heard his own footsteps. The echoes engulfed him as he focused on concentrating on not being noticed. Although he had yet to see behind him, Arnold sensed there was something wrong in the state of California.
He pricked up his ears and thought he noticed the clip-clop of leather shoes. Arnold paused, bent down to pretend to tie a shoelace and took a quick look at what was happening. The footsteps had just been a businessman, hot on his heels.
Then, about a block away, Arnold noticed one of the gorillas hurrying toward him. A second glance revealed the other gorilla four hundred feet behind his colleague. He swallowed hard and picked up the pace, hanging left and crossing the street. His jaywalking did nothing and the two fellas kept on coming.
Walking, walking and almost forming a trot, Arnold hurried along the sidewalk, ducking and diving, left and right, hoping to shake his tail. But they remained on his six.
Up ahead, an alleyway and Arnold strode into it and hid behind a municipal dumpster. He squatted and waited, still able to see people passing by the end of the alley. First one gorilla, then ten seconds later, the other fella. He stayed a further twenty seconds, but then he had to know if he was free and clear.
Arnold peeked round the corner, gun in hand, but all he saw was a sea formed from the backs of heads. He stood up to get a better view and realized he’d been spotted. The two guys were waiting for him half a block ahead. He reversed into the alley, back pressed against the wall. Think. Think goddamn it!
The alley formed an L-shape and the entrance contained the dumpster, some boxes and general waste along with some wooden pallets. He had no idea what was around the corner. Arnold had a handful of seconds to decide and threw himself under the pallets, covering himself with whatever crap he could grab. He lay under there, inhaling the stink, for a lifetime.
After a minute he saw a pair of shoes between the ground and the lowest slat of the pallet lying on top of him. They remained there for four, maybe five, seconds and carried on deeper into the alley. Arnold held his breath and tried to break the laws of Physics by remaining as still as a corpse, while moving his arm to get a clear shot. No can do. By the time his hand was in position, the shoes had left and taken their owner further down the alley.
Another minute and no-one new had appeared and the first fella hadn’t returned. Arnold tried to wait longer, but his overwhelming desire for survival drove him to act. He slithered out from under the pallets. No-show on his man, so he padded over to the corner to see what the dude was up to. Answer: pissing against a wall. Unfortunately for Arnold, he couldn’t make it two-for-two as the fella finished before he had a chance to shoot him in the back of the head.
Instead a slug to the heart did the job and the guy crumpled to the ground. He checked the entrance to the alley but no-one was coming. No-one had even heard the shot ring out due to the din of the traffic. He scurried over to the body, two fingers on the carotid to verify it was a corpse, then he pulled out the wallet and grabbed the green.
Arnold didn’t waste time hiding the fella because he wasn’t visible from the street anyway. Would take days before even a hobo found the carcass - and by then everyone would know about the hit on Mendoza and do the math.
Back on the main drag, Arnold peered as far ahead as he could, but the other fella was nowhere. Part of him wanted to find and kill the dude and the rest of him wanted to run away. The chances of the goon remembering his face was low, but non-zero: a decision made. He had to get to the guy before the gorilla got to him - or a payphone.
Arnold figured the best he could do was keep going in the last direction the fella was walking and take it from there - knowing all the while, the fella might jump him at any moment. There’s a skill to walking along a sidewalk with the utmost caution while appearing not to have a care in the world. Arnold was a pro.
Three blocks later and the crowd thinned out, giving him a chance to see further ahead. One block up, he recognized the hairstyle of his prey. An increase in pace and he was only two hundred feet behind.
The fella stopped and lit a smoke. Had he made Arnold? Difficult to say. It was a classic move - he’d done it himself that same morning - but the dude might just be a smoker. He pretended to stare at a storefront for five seconds and carried on walking. Without breaking his pace for a moment, Arnold blinked hard because the guy had vanished. Out the blue. Gone. Nada.
He placed a hand on his gun, which he’d put in his pants pocket and took off the safety. He knew the feel of every inch of that piece and achieved the task without blowing his balls clean off. Arnold slowed as he reached the next corner. He headed to the kerb to have the maximum angle as he turned left past the building.
As the new street appeared in his field of vision, so did the fella, who was standing feet apart, gun in hand, aiming directly at him. They both fired at each other at exactly the same time and the guy crashed to his knees. Arnold felt the zing of a bullet and a burning heat in his chest. Then blackout.
38
AS MARY LOU entered the hallway, she noticed it was festooned with family photographs, young and old, groups and solos. She ignored the blood ties connecting Charles Pentangelo. She didn’t care.
A glass door in front of her revealed a mix of colors beyond, but no discernable shapes. She hesitated for a second and pushed it open. The living room contained an array of couches, easy chairs and coffee tables. The red-patterned wallpaper dragged the space down to the size of a postage stamp. At the far end was an eight seat dining table. A man sat with his back to her while the slurping noise of pasta sauce echoed round the apartment. The sound of washing up emanated from a kitchen to the left.
As soundlessly as possible, Mary Lou bent her knees and shoved her hand past her rose and into her panties. Three seconds later, she held her snub nose and had thrown the sanitary napkin to the floor. With one thumb, she flipped off the safety. Two hands held the gun, arms straight in front as she prepared to take the kill shot.
Pentangelo turned his head ten degrees to the right and Mary Lou threw both hands behind her back, one finger remaining on the trigger. Without a word, he beckoned her nearer with first and second fingers waving in her direction. The clattering of pans continued in the kitchen and Mary Lou discerned the sound of running water. A woman’s voice hummed to herself.
Keeping her head bowed, she stepped forward until she was ten feet away from the man who ordered the death of her husband and sanctioned her children’s kidnapping. Although her overwhelming urge was to fill his brains full of lead, the second part of the plan was for her to escape in one piece.
Mary Lou needed to assess the danger in the kitchen and plug the guy so the gorillas outside didn’t suspect a thing. That way, she could walk right past them and vanish on the wide sidewalks of Little Italy.
She waited to see what he would do. Without turning his head any further, Pentangelo continued slurping his linguini.
“Come nearer, my dear, so you can tell me your story. My associate tells me you have traveled on a sad path to arrive at my home.”
“This is true, Signor Pentangelo.”
She let out a tiny sob and ceremonially stepped up a pace, one foot after the other, heels returning next to each other. Second step, then the third. Pentangelo sensed her approach and held out a hand, limp, for her to kiss it - out of respect.
Mary Lou touched the fingers and planted her lips on his cygnet ring. A blood-red ruby set in gold. She thought she would throw up, but instead she resumed her position, averting her gaze lest the mighty capo incurred any
displeasure. The bubbly slurps showed he was relaxed and hungry.
“I met this boy.”
“There is always a boy. What is his name and how old is he?”
“Frankie and he’s only a few years older than me.”
Pentangelo raised an eye to her to gauge her age. This was the first time he’d taken a proper look at her since she’d entered his home. Mary Lou watched his eyes rest on her breasts. This beast of a man was the same as all the others. His brains lived in his dick. He breathed deep gasps of air, and then he resumed his chewing.
“And what happened with this Frankie?”
“We fell in love and he wanted more.”
“More?”
“More than I was prepared to give him, at least before we were married.”
Pentangelo dropped his fork and spoon into his bowl. Mary Lou tensed, shifting her weight onto the balls of her feet, ready to pounce.
“He dishonored you?”
She let out another sob for an answer to his old-fashioned question. His body was in America but his soul stayed in Sicily.
“Motherfucker.”
This word was whispered by one of them, but Mary Lou was unsure if it had been her or him. She could take no chances and knew he had sensed a change in her body language. He swiveled round in his chair just as she took the butt of the pistol and slammed it into the back of his head.
His face hit the pasta bowl, which broke into pieces, and he pushed himself off to grab at her. Bits of ceramic stuck to his forehead and cheek as he lunged at her, trying to grab at her throat but finding only air. She put the barrel of the snub nose onto Pentangelo’s lips, causing him to stop in his tracks. She hissed at him, sulfurous words spat at him, a living embodiment of pure hate.
The Lagotti Family Series Page 64
