Lovely, Dark, and Deep

by Frank Zafiro

Browning had her circle the number below Bassen’s photo, initial it and sign the bottom of the montage. He slipped it into a case folder.

  “Stay available to me,” he told me, then left.

  I heaved a sigh of relief once he was out of the room, sinking into the chair next to Monique’s bed. She asked me for some water, and I poured her a cup. She sipped, then asked me weakly, “Now what?”

  “Exactly,” I said, and we both smiled in spite of everything. She kept looking at me, though, so I answered her question. “Now he’ll pick Bassen up on suspicion of assault, based on your statement. He’ll work him for a little while on the assault, then slide over to the Beurkens murder. Try to shake him. See if he goes for it.”

  “He won’t, will he?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Browning is very good. Maybe they’ll turn up a witness or some physical evidence to make it more difficult for him to deny.”

  “If they don’t?”

  “Then I think Browning will probably charge me. After that, it’ll be up to my lawyer.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “But it is. I asked for your help. That’s why you’re in this situation.”

  “I made my own choices,” I told her.

  “A murder charge? You didn’t choose that.”

  I shrugged. “I didn’t know it was going to happen, or believe me, I would’ve taken a different approach.” I gave her a meaningful look, and took her hand. “Listen,” I said, squeezing her hand, “with Bracco tying up loose ends, you need to be extra careful, okay? If they release you, don’t go home. At least not until this is wrapped up. Even then, you should move.”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “Maybe all the way to Montreal,” I suggested.

  She only smiled at me. A sad, weak smile.

  We sat quietly for a while. The weariness of the previous night and the post-adrenaline crash weighed heavily on me. I drifted in and out of sleep in the chair, finally dropping off entirely.

  I woke when they brought in Monique’s food. The smell of the soup made my stomach rumble.

  “Soup for breakfast?” I asked her. “You ask for that?”

  She smiled weakly. “You slept through breakfast. This is lunch.”

  I glanced up at the wall clock. She was right. It was almost eleven-thirty.

  I glanced at the bandage on her head. “You seem better. The procedure must have worked.”

  “The doctor said it was a success,” she said. “Now I just have to recover.”

  “How long?”

  “A few days here. A few weeks at home.”

  I took her hand. “Well, I’m glad.”

  “Thanks,” she whispered, her voice thick with tears.

  I sat, holding her hand for a few minutes. Then I rose to my feet. “You should try to eat,” I told her.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To try to solve this mess once and for all,” I told her.

  On the way out of the hospital, I paused at the newsstand. I bought a copy of the paper and took it to the cafeteria. There I ordered some of the same soup Monique was eating upstairs, along with a grilled cheese sandwich and some more coffee.

  I took my time scanning the paper. The story about Beurkens wasn’t front page news but it made the front of the regional section. Typically, Lieutenant Crawford of the Major Crimes unit had little to say about what the reporter described as a probable suicide. There was no mention of me having been taken into custody. I wondered how long that little nugget would stay secret. I wondered how much hell Browning was going to pay when Crawford found out he didn’t book me. More than both of those concerns, I wondered how his interview with Bassen would go.

  I found the other piece of news I was looking for in the business section, which shares a section with the Sports in the ever-shrinking River City Herald.

  Local minority contractor wins development bid. Below the headline was a picture of Memphis Rossiter shaking hands with the mayor. I read the details, but there was nothing interesting until the second to the last paragraph.

  The purchase offer (or bid) process was very thorough, said Councilwoman Ellen Stark, acting chair of the Contracts Committee. “After we narrowed it to the three best, we listened to one final presentation from each of them. Then we placed our individual votes into a sealed envelope for the Council President to open.” The vote for Caroline Construction, owned by Rossiter, was reportedly by a 2-1 margin, with the late Councilman Lawrence Tate being the lone vote against.

  I shook my head. The poor son of a bitch. He’d made promises he wasn’t able to deliver. He couldn’t swing the votes of his fellow politicians. And it cost him his life.

  Had he called Bracco to tell him? Tried to return the money? Or was he going to take the money and run anyway?

  Christ, maybe he actually committed suicide.

  Those were questions I don’t think I could ever answer. But I knew everything I needed to know. Tate took the bribe and couldn’t deliver the goods. Bracco sent Bassen, who did the mobster’s dirty work for him. He got back Bracco’s money, and probably took Tate’s hundred thousand, too. He probably would have gotten away with it clean, too, if it weren’t for Paula Tate checking the wall safe.

  I frowned. After Tate, Joe Baseen had visited Monique, and put her in the hospital.

  I finished my coffee and left the tray on the table.

  The mystery was over.

  Only the mess remained.

  39

  Since the police had impounded my car as evidence, I took a taxi out to The Hole. Browning might be willing to pursue possible leads, but he wasn’t going to take any chances with potential evidence, either.

  When I walked in, I waited the second or two it took to adjust to the lighting. The clear advantage to this for Rolo didn’t escape me. The gangster was always facing the door and can see everyone who enters before their eyes can adjust. He can prepare his thoughts, take action or just disappear out the back door before anyone even knows he’s here.

  But Rolo didn’t do any of those things. He sat in the corner booth, his head tipped back, hands clasped behind his neck, his eyes closed. Music played low on the jukebox, something with a slow beat, heavy on the bass.

  I walked over and stood near the table, waiting for him to notice me.

  When the music trailed off, he spoke with eyes still closed. “Shee-it,” he said. “It’s Dan Patrick.”

  “Huh?”

  He opened his eyes and looked at me without surprise. “Sportscenter, dude. Sit down.”

  I sat across from him. Another song started, similar to the last.

  “Man, I love it when they do that,” he said. “Take them old gospel tunes and re-work them into something relevant to-day.”

  I didn’t answer. We’d talk when he was ready to start. I’d figured that out a while ago.

  “Now this one here?” he continued. “This one by a white boy, but even he knows how to make that old song work new magic. You hearing that?”

  I listened, then nodded.

  “You know who that is?” Rolo asked.

  “No.”

  “He the man that sung Stairway to Heaven. You believe that? That’s some versatile shit right there.”

  We listened in silence for a few moments longer, than Rolo shrugged. “I can see you ain’t no kind of music aficionado. So you here to tell me what I need to hear?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So talk, motherfucker.”

  I told him everything. The experience was strangely similar to when I unloaded the whole story to Harrity, only then I was sure that the guy listening to me was going to try to help me after I was finished talking. With Rolo, I couldn’t say.

  When I’d finished, Rolo sighed and waved the bartender over. “Beer and a shot,” he said, then glanced over at me. “Make it two.”

  We were both quiet until the bartender brought the order to the tab
le. Then Rolo raised the shot glass and motioned for me to do the same.

  “You finished the job,” he said, and tossed back the whisky.

  I did the same.

  We both reached for our beer and chased the shot.

  “You look like shit,” he said. “Like some kind of raccoon or somethin’. You do realize that, I hope.”

  “I do.”

  “Wouldn’t be good for a man to be walking around unaware of how god-awful he look.”

  “I’m fully aware.”

  “Good, then.”

  We sat for a while longer, sipping the beer and watching each other. Then Rolo said, “So the Italian sends his boy to beat up on my girl, just like you thought, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “But sounds to me things got pretty complicated after that.”

  “They did.”

  “So what you want from me? I done paid you, and far as I can see, you earned it. So we even.”

  “We are.”

  “But you want something more, don’t ya? I can tell.”

  I shrugged. “I figure you’re not done with this situation yet.”

  “No?”

  “No. You can’t let this stand. If word on the street gets out that one of your girls got beat and nothing happened, that can cause you trouble, right?”

  Rolo shrugged. “Could be. Man can’t protect what’s his, people start to wonder all sorts of things.”

  “So you’re going to have to talk to Bracco about this.”

  “Maybe. But that’d be my business.”

  “Take me with you.”

  “What? You want to get worse than those two black eyes or something?” He shook his head. “Crazy ass cracker.”

  “I’m not kidding,” I said. “Like I told you, his muscle is sitting downtown with a detective right now, sweating his balls off. If Bracco knows that, and I’m sure he does, he’s sweating it, too. My presence will only amp that up, which will give you an advantage.”

  “I don’t need you to have an advantage over some guinea transplant.”

  “Every advantage helps.”

  Rolo frowned, considering. “I do this, what you want in return?”

  “Just vouch for me. Vouch that I won’t say a word.”

  Rolo’s frown melted into a laugh. “Motherfucker, it ain’t like we business partners.”

  “No, but we’ve done business. This time, and once before. And you know I’m good to my word. That’s the reason you came to me this time.”

  Rolo stared at me, but didn’t deny it.

  “So vouch for me. It costs you nothing.”

  Rolo gave it some thought. Finally, he said, “Aw’right. We’ll see how it go.”

  40

  My suggestion was to go to Angelo’s and talk to Bracco there, but Rolo shook his head. “A meet like this got to be on neutral territory,” he said. “Otherwise, someone got the advantage.”

  He made a call from a payphone two blocks away from The Hole. His conversation was brief, but pointed. I got the impression Bracco was reluctant to meet him, but Rolo said, “How many dirty ass street niggers you want coming into your establishment every motherfucking night?” A moment or two later, he hung up, then picked up the phone again and called a taxi.

  We rode in the back seat in silence. I didn’t feel that familiar buzz of adrenaline and realized it was because I was exhausted. A few hours of sleep in Monique’s room had barely taken the edge off for me. I dozed on the ride south and while I waited for Rolo outside Rhonda’s house. Rolo emerged with a manila envelope. Then we turned north, and I dozed some more.

  The taxi stopped at a park just off Division Street. Rolo paid the driver and we walked slowly to a large, empty gazebo. Once under the huge roof, we both took a seat at one of the picnic tables.

  I had to admire Rolo’s strategy. The gazebo was in the middle of the park. Large swaths of grass were on either side. Short of a sniper armed with a rifle, it would be impossible for Bracco to bring along any muscle without Rolo seeing them arrive. Coming into the middle of the park also gave Bracco the opportunity to scope out the situation before deciding to approach. It was win/win for both sides.

  Bracco arrived late. He got out of the car, slammed the door and walked toward the gazebo without a single look around. My guess was that he parked off and watched the situation for a little while before pulling into the parking lot.

  When he reached the gazebo, he stood across the picnic table from Rolo and me, staring at Rolo. It occurred to me that he could just pull out a pistol and shoot us both. Sure, it wasn’t a very private place for an execution, but that wouldn’t be much consolation to me once I was dead.

  Rolo motioned to the empty bench. After a moment, Bracco sat down.

  I had definitely watched too many Mafia movies. It didn’t help that Bracco looked like an extra from any one of them.

  He fixed his eyes on me, a small, cruel smile playing on his lips. “You. I thought we had an agreement. I never see you again. You get to live. I guess that’s off the table now, huh?”

  I stared back at him and said nothing.

  “Wassamatta?” He asked, then motioned to Rolo. “Mulignon got your tongue?”

  Rolo didn’t react to the slur.

  Bracco looked back and forth between the two of us, then shrugged and motioned for Rolo to talk. “Go ahead. You called this little party.”

  “I’m going to reach into my jacket,” Rolo said. “It ain’t nothing for you to be worrying about.”

  “I look worried?”

  Rolo took the manila envelope from inside his jacket. He pulled out a 5x7 photograph and placed it in front of Bracco. Even upside down, I could see that it was a glamour shot of Monique.

  Bracco glanced at the picture, then back at Rolo. “Sorry. I’m not into splitting black oak.”

  “That don’t surprise me none,” Rolo said. “Seeing how you is ignorant. But this here is the girl you sent your boy to tune up back a week ago. She still up in the hospital behind that shit.”

  “What can I say? Sometimes bad things happen to good people. Only God knows why.”

  “She pointed out your boy to the police,” Rolo said. “He sittin’ in the box right now, being worked on.”

  “Joe’s a soldier,” Bracco said. “What’s your point?”

  “He beat up my girl. I can’t let this shit stand.”

  “You can’t let it? Who the fuck are you?”

  Rolo stared at him hard. “This here is a parley, you goombah motherfucker. We are gonna come to an understanding, or it’s gonna get ugly.”

  “Goombah? You know who you’re talkin’ to, you fucking smoke?”

  “I do. I surely do. And I know you know who you’re talking to. So now that we got that bullshit out the way, how we gonna solve our predicament?”

  Bracco leaned forward. “There ain’t nothing to solve. Your whore got into shit she had no part being into. She got warned to shut her clam. Obviously, she didn’t listen, which was pretty stupid on her part, don’t you think?”

  “You gonna leave that girl be,” Rolo said. “And then some. That’s the tax.”

  “You’re taxing me?” Bracco leaned back and laughed. “Oh, that’s rich. Really rich.”

  “You’re not from here,” Rolo said. “Right?”

  “No kidding.”

  “From New Jersey, so I hear.”

  “Yeah, I’m from Jersey. So what?”

  “So, I figure maybe things work different back there on the East Coast. We got ourselves a unique situation here. One that’s more delicate.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “We ain’t as big here,” Rolo explained. “There ain’t as much pie for all of us to slice. So we got to be more careful not to step in each other’s business.”

  Bracco shrugged. “I didn’t know she was your girl.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s on you. You knew she was a working girl, so you shoulda thunk to find out who she was with. Then we co
ulda talked about this like businessmen.”

  “Water under the bridge now,” Bracco said. “Whaddaya want, you know? Fuck it.”

  “You go to high school?” Rolo asked.

  “The fuck you care?”

  “Humor me.”

  “Yeah, I went to high school. Where I come from, only the jigs dropped out.”

  “You take Biology?”

  “Cuttin’ up frogs and shit? Sure. What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “See, I had Biology with this Japanese teacher by the name of Mr. Watanabe. He was one slick dude. And he took the time to explain to all us knuckleheads what an ecosystem was. Spent the entire year making us understand. How all the different parts worked together, depended on each other, all that noise.” He sniffed and motioned at Bracco with his chin. “That shit be the same for economic systems, too. All interdependent.”

  “That’s a big word for you,” Bracco sneered.

  “I always said the scariest thing in the world is a nigger with an education.”

  “I’m more worried about niggers in my neighborhood,” Bracco said.

  Rolo chuckled. “I believe it. But maybe you ain’t seeing the picture I’m painting for you here. I run the girls out east, along with a couple escort businesses south. I don’t run much dope and any of that’s wholesale, but I do some dirty with the bikers out east. And I trade girls with the Russians up north, too, just to keep our selection spicy. About the only people in town I don’t have some kind of arrangement with are the skinheads downtown, and who wants to deal with those motherfuckers, anyhow?”

  “Congratulations,” Bracco said. “You’re the black Donald Trump.”

  “You really gonna sit there and tell me you don’t get it?”

  “Oh, I get it. You’re telling me it’s all inter-related, and everyone works together and no man is an island and all of the circle of life shit. That about right?”

  “You don’t think you’re part of that circle?”

  Bracco shrugged. “We all got partners. Let’s agree to that. I’m not going to give you my job resume, but if you’re saying your pals can fuck with me, I’m saying my friends can crack skulls, too. What of it?”