“I said when you arrived at camp you’d be treated as men if you acted like men.”
All four waited.
“Just because Salvatore Cavallo is more often in the mood for a fight than not is no reason for the rest of the barracks to single him out. If I could I’d put him in empty Barracks Five by himself. But I can’t do that.”
When the four glanced to one another with puzzled looks, the superintendent blew up.
“Listen, boys!” Then more quietly. “I’ve heard rotten rumors around camp. Believe me, that girl’s murder had nothing to do with us. I should know. Not that we’re perfect. What I’m talking about is a prime example. If I get wind of any more rumors, like the Cavallo young man somehow related to a crime simply because of his ethnic background, your discharge sheet will make it hard to get into the branch of service you may have wanted. You’re not in Boys Town here. I’m US Army and I’ve got the authority! Do I make myself clear?”
They all nodded.
“If you want rumors, some folks in the towns say an Irish worker from one of the road crews up north was seen hanging around the river the night the girl was killed. That’s the rumor I hear, so don’t go spreading any of your own.”
The superintendent tried on a smile that didn’t look like a smile. “By the way, we got this new LEM from Salt Lake City who’s working with the powder monkeys. Name’s Decken. He knows something about geology. Maybe you’ve seen him in the recreation building. And maybe you’ll learn some local geology from him because next week you’ll be working with him helping clear the road to Vernal.”
After the superintendent left the table, Bela saw enrollees from other tables looking their way, especially other Barracks Three enrollees. Near the front of the mess, Sal sat facing the other way, obviously ignoring what just happened.
Jimmy pushed his tray to the center of the table. “That was nothing. This afternoon taking a leak in the woods I met up with the hoods from the black Buick who gave Sal a ride.”
Silence, all three staring at Jimmy.
“They said leave Sal alone or they’d take care of me like they took care of Henry.”
Before classes that evening, Bela, Nick, George, Jimmy and other Barracks Three enrollees gathered camp scuttlebutt. It was confirmed; Sal’s goons had gotten to staff and the superintendent. During classes even the instructors were spooked.
The plan, doing something was better than nothing. After lights out, they’d put sheets over the windows and turn the lights back on. The two big barge loaders from St. Louis agreed to guard the door and switch out the lights should an officer or LEM show up. Jethro, the Georgia baritone, would have his guitar out so he and Paul Fontaine could do a duet to cover the commotion of them getting back to their bunks.
Maybe after confronting Sal they’d discover he had nothing to do with the Green River girl. Maybe they’d have a sit down with Sal, he’d see none of them was out to get him, and in the end his goons would start looking after the entire barracks.
“It can’t hurt to try,” said the brain from New Jersey who’d been reading a book his dad sent him called How To Win Friends And Influence People. “Everybody’s got to have some good in them.”
“I say we give it a try,” said the kid from Dallas. “Corral him into seeing things our way.”
“What if Sal doesn’t show up?” asked the New Jersey brain.
“He’s always in the barracks after class.”
But at nine, Sal wasn’t there. And at half past nine everyone was talking at once.
“You want covers on the windows anyway?”
“Leave it.”
“How about the lights?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hey, who’s been in my footlocker?”
“Mine, too.”
“Anything missing?”
“It’s messed up.”
“That’s why I got a lock.”
“What the hell is this? There’s some of that new Scotch tape in my work pants pocket.”
“It ain’t that new.”
“It’s got hair on it.”
“You keep hair in your pocket?”
“Hell no.”
“Hey, I got the same thing in my work pants. Tape with hair on it.”
“Me, too.”
Suddenly the barracks door swung open and Sal walked in, eyeing the St. Louis boys on either side. He looked around at everyone and walked slowly to his bunk. He lay down on his back with his hands behind his head.
The only sound was the rustling of a mouse beneath floorboards. With all the windows closed and draped, it was hot, the smell of the day’s work clothes in the air.
Bela approached Sal’s bunk. Sal began speaking, all the while keeping his eye on Bela.
“So, I go for a beer and you guys make plans. You got a girl to gang-shag?” Sal stood, his face redder than usual. “Mess with me and my old man’ll take care of you and your families! You think camp staff’s on your side? Brother, that day’s long gone. What’s the scuttlebutt? One of you go bananas on a local gal? Damn foreigners! You, Bela Lugosi. Or you, Boris Karloff. You come to my country thinking you can do anything. I’m the only one can do anything!”
Sal walked into the aisle and faced Bela.
“What say, Bela Lugosi? Ain’t it true some guys do anything they want? Like your man Hitler over there?”
“He’s not my man,” said Bela.
“I hear your so-called countrymen joined him!”
“Not necessarily by choice.”
Sal took a step closer. “Your next gal gonna be from somewhere else? That’s how Bohunks work. First up in Green River, then down in Vernal!”
Bela waited to make certain Sal was finished. The rest of the men hadn’t moved. Finally, Bela asked his question.
“Tell me, Salvatore Cavallo. Are you saying you plan to kill again?”
Sal held his fists up, one leg in front of the other. “What I’m saying, Bela Lugosi, is being the victim’s hair was pulled out, and being guys in this barracks are saving hair, we’re in this together! A guy might or might not catch himself a ride down to Vernal! Either way I’ve got torpedoes guaranteeing one thing!”
“And that one thing is?”
“I go down we all go down! I get fingered, there’ll be another gal while I got witnesses as to my complete innocence! You guys and your straight razors get me?”
After Sal lowered his fists, Bela took down window coverings and opened windows as others went to their bunks. The only sounds were floorboards creaking, springs squeaking, then silence. For the first time since they’d been at camp, Jimmy didn’t say, “Lights out.”
After the lights were out, Sal whispered, “Hush little babies, don’t you cry.”
Outside, mountains on both sides of the valley listened. There was no snoring in Barracks Three that night.
Chapter 22
Separate cabs and switching halfway. Janos hauling luggage across Manhattan, eventually getting to the neighborhood of the New Jersey RV dealership. Mariya starting her cab rides later. Together they waited in the entryway of an abandoned furniture store to be certain neither was followed. A homeless woman walking past eyed the two sitting on suitcases.
“Like her we should wear sweaters and coats,” said Mariya.
“I agree,” said Janos.
Mariya retrieved a pair of rusty shopping carts from a vacant lot. The wobbly wheels were noisy beneath their luggage. Janos let his shirttails hang out. Mariya wore a scarf babushka style. The homeless couple transported their belongings several blocks. Near their destination a Linden, New Jersey, patrol car slowed alongside. When Mariya saw a policewoman staring, she gave the policewoman a mournful smile and kept pushing her rickety cart. The patrol car gone, they backtracked into the alley behind the dealership. After stowing their luggage in the motor home
and dumping the carts, the sun was down.
“This will be like driving a building down the road,” said Mariya.
“No one expects ducks in the duck blind.”
“Where do we go now?” asked Mariya, sliding into the booth behind the driver’s seat.
“Tonight we stay here,” said Janos. “We have registration and plates. At my request the salesman left the back gate unlocked. I only wish Sonia were with us.”
“You and Lazlo will be militiamen again. Knowing one another’s mood and intentions will help us solve it.”
Janos found utensils, plates, a candle, and matches.
Mariya opened the refrigerator. The light went on revealing empty and warm shelves.
“Come with me,” said Janos.
He led her to the side door. Between rows of motor homes, a taco stand across the street from the dealership was so brightly-lit, reflections of motor home glass, aluminum, and fiberglass made the lot into a carnival.
“Voilà.”
Together three days and four nights. Clichés sneaking into intimate conversations: “Life is short,” and “A rolling stone gathers no moss.” Giggling like children in Lazlo’s bed. Nervous laughter better than none.
They began their clandestine journey at four in the morning scattering stray cats in Ukrainian Village alleyways, carrying rather than rolling suitcases on gravel. The oven exhaust fan behind the Bakery Café gushed sweet warmth. Luggage stowed in Niki’s Dodge Caravan, they retraced the route.
Back in the apartment, Lazlo whispered into Niki’s ear. “Just now, in the bathroom, I heard a noise from next door. As of yesterday that apartment was vacant.”
“Could someone have seen us in the alley?” whispered Niki.
“The windows face the wall of another building.”
“What should we do?”
“Would you feel safe going back to your van alone?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll watch the alley from my fire escape to make sure you’re not followed. Then I’ll lug a huge empty suitcase I didn’t use down the stairs and to my car. With the van on the other side of Damen on a bus route, you should be safe. Send a simple text message when you arrive. I’ve got an overcoat in my car. I’ll prop it up as though you’re with me. After I leave in my car with the empty suitcase, I’ll lose anyone who follows, park somewhere else, and walk back to the van. Lock yourself inside until I arrive.”
“I have pepper spray. Do you, Lazlo?”
“Yes. Both our phones are on vibrate.” Lazlo threaded a key off his key ring. “Take this.”
“What’s it for?”
“In my small suitcase already in the van there’s a metal gun case with a loaded revolver.”
“What if—?”
Lazlo interrupted by turning Niki’s head to whisper into her ear. “If I don’t arrive at the van within an hour, drive to the front of the FBI building downtown. You won’t be able to park without being chased away. Keep coming around the block. After that, go to lunch.”
“I won’t be able to eat.”
“But you will eat. The thought of being with my fellow rolling stone will keep me safe.”
As soon as he suction cupped the microphone to the bathroom wall he picked up an early CNN broadcast in another apartment, but could tell the two next door whispered. A door opened and closed. He left the bathroom and ran across the empty apartment he just broke into. No one in the hallway.
Back in the lighted bathroom he adjusted earphones. Still movement next door. He looked into the mirror above the sink. His eyes bloodshot. Yesterday he was in the tow truck heading back to Rock Springs. He’d lost the Suburban and Pescatore had texted. A private jet at Rock Springs, the meeting at the Chicago fish market. The Greek woman, Niki Gianakos, back on the agenda, along with Lazlo Horvath, an ex-detective from Ukraine.
Commotion next door. During a lull in the racket, a door banged open. When he ran and peered out, he saw Lazlo Horvath for the first time. A man with wild gray hair pulling a large wheeled suitcase down the hall to the stairwell.
Guzzo went back to listen. Hearing nothing, he pulled the suction cup away, wiped the wall with his sleeve, turned off the light, and hurried after Horvath. When he passed the apartment he checked the knob, found it locked. The Greek woman must have gone ahead.
Horvath’s suitcase bumped on sidewalk expansion joints. He went past Guzzo’s latest Camry rental. Guzzo paused and watched. A half-block away, Horvath opened the trunk of a Honda Civic and shoved the large suitcase in, pushing it about to make it fit. The Greek woman must have slipped out. It appeared someone was in the car’s passenger seat.
Guzzo started the Camry and was about to follow the Civic when a dark SUV with heavily-tinted windows drove slowly past with its lights out.
After Janos drove the motor home through the alley gate, Mariya got out and ran back to close it. Back inside, door locks clicked when Janos pushed the button. “Most large Class A homes had only one door, like our door back there. This Class C is based on a van and therefore has normal driver and passenger doors.”
“You are savvy American shopper,” said Mariya.
“I also purchased a GPS.”
“I’ll watch from the back. When we’re sure of not being followed I’ll make coffee. Both the sink and stove work and I found instant in the cupboard.”
After their back road route the eastern sky behind them reddened with dawn. Once on Interstate 80, Mariya sat up front, coffee cups in the holders. The engine throbbing beneath the center console created ripples in the cups like bull’s-eyes.
“This beast is noisier than our Ukraine camper van,” said Mariya.
“A large V-8 in the doghouse.”
“Doghouse?”
“While shopping I learned the terminology. The engine compartment we are forced to squeeze around is called the doghouse.”
“Doghouse in America also refers to a place a person in trouble resides,” said Mariya.
“Really?”
“Yes, Janos. Bowwow.”
Having met Lazlo only recently, Niki trusted him, but mostly worried about him. Perhaps they’d met in another lifetime and, going through ordeals, prepared to arrive at this time, in this place, together.
A few windows lit in apartments where weary Chicagoans made their way to kitchens, and especially to bathrooms. Too much coffee while she and Lazlo whispered their plan. She’d flipped the switch to cancel the interior lights. When Lazlo arrived, the light would not go on. Okay, now she had to pee so badly, she could almost hear Lazlo saying, do what you must. Luckily she hadn’t parked beneath a streetlight and no one had come out of an apartment. A bus went by and was a block away. She checked forward and back, unlocked the door with the mechanical button so the automatic headlights wouldn’t flash, opened up, got out, pulled down her jeans and underwear, and squatted in the street.
Headlights a half-block back after Lazlo pulled the Civic out of the tight spot. Perhaps he rolled his empty suitcase right past the vehicle. When he turned the corner onto Damen Avenue south, he saw it was an SUV, two in front lit up beneath a streetlight. As expected, the SUV paused before pulling out behind him. This time of morning, remaining unnoticed was difficult.
Instead of continuing to the Chicago Avenue stoplight ahead, Lazlo tapped his brakes for a quick right on Rice Street, a narrow one way, then the next left, then another left, and back onto Damen. The SUV had to hurry to keep track. Back on Damen heading south, Lazlo knew they were following, and now they knew Lazlo knew. The overcoat in his passenger seat had leaned onto the console during the turns and he propped it back up.
He drove down Damen to Grand Avenue. Grand angled northwest. The SUV powered through a stoplight’s yellow, its higher headlights glaring. He needed to get back to Niki, but in the process lose the SUV. Therefore he did what any savvy Chicago drive
r would do. He drove like the bat out of hell, watching for cops.
Northwest on Grand, a sudden screeching turn onto Humboldt Drive, barreling through the park and onto the parkway. He braked hard and cranked the Civic into a narrow street with cars parked on both sides. The SUV kept up, but the narrow street with the SUV wagging back and forth to avoid parked cars provided the solution. He sped back to Damen, north of where Niki waited. Then a quick right down an alley behind businesses. As expected, morning delivery trucks, some almost, but not quite, blocking the alley. He squeezed in front of the cab of a backed-in beer truck.
“Damn!” The SUV made it through, sparks where it touched the truck’s bumper.
After the alley he purposely turned the wrong way onto a one-way street. The SUV followed. A car head-on flashed its lights. He nosed into a no-parking zone and the car flew past, a woman flashing her finger then gaping at the SUV’s headlights. The SUV backed into an alley as Lazlo pulled out of the no-parking zone to continue the wrong way. But suddenly his driver’s door was pulled open and a hand grabbed his jacket at the shoulder.
“Don’t make it hard!” shouted a man.
Lazlo eased off on the gas. “Why not?”
“I don’t like running!”
“Then you must practice!”
As Lazlo sped up his shoulder belt locked, jacket trying to tear its way beneath the belt. The jacket zipper gouged his neck. The man’s feet slapped the pavement. Lazlo’s left hand tore from the wheel. The slapping of feet ended but the man hung on, the Civic dragging him, the driver’s door smashing him, the man’s breathing stronger as if he could stop the Civic by sheer force. Then, suddenly, the grip ended, the door slammed, and Lazlo was able to put his left hand back on the steering wheel. In the mirror he saw the man he’d dragged in the headlights of the SUV. The man jumped up, ran around to the passenger side and got in.
Another alley, another one-way street, but going the right direction. More quick turns, the Civic’s engine and tires screaming. A bystander slammed his door shut and pasted himself against his car as the Civic flew past. One side of an insane dialog entered his mind.
The Girl With 39 Graves Page 20
