The Girl With 39 Graves

by Michael Beres

At summer’s end, radios brought news of Germany’s invasion of Poland. European countries, one after another, declared war. The US remained neutral. During hospital visits to Uncle Rosario, who’d had a serious stroke and was obviously near death, Salvatore Cavallo Senior put up with his uncle’s ranting and coughing, and also with Felice constantly at the bedside. When awake, the only thing his Uncle would say was, “There’s too much talk of neutrality! Are we no longer men?”

  Uncle Rosario hung on and eventually Cavallo invited his driver, Lonzo, to be with him. Conversing with Lonzo and Felice, while his uncle slept, gave Cavallo a new perspective on life and death. With their help a plan for the future of the Cavallo family emerged. Despite their mediocre positions in the organization, both Lonzo and Felice impressed Cavallo.

  While his uncle remained physically but not mentally in the room, the three spoke of Omerta, the code of honor. After his uncle’s stroke, Cavallo hadn’t had a chance to speak in detail about the consequences of the CCC boys taking his son’s life. With his uncle out of the picture, Cavallo, Lonzo, and Felice agreed the death of Little Sal, especially in the aftermath of Cavallo’s men sent running with tails between their legs, would be impossible to keep under wraps. At least one runaway man or CCC boy or staff member would talk. It would spread across the east coast and around the world. The family name shamed. It would get back to Sicily and men would shake their heads at the cowardice of the Cavallos. During one hospital room conversation, with the hallway door closed, Cavallo asked Lonzo and Felice what they would do.

  Lonzo spoke first, his voice as deep as Uncle Rosario’s gutteral breathing. “If it were me, I’d need to take care of those boys. It’d be tough with war coming, but I wouldn’t let it rest no matter how long it took.”

  Although Felice’s voice was high-pitched like a boy, he spoke slowly and zealously. “It’s not me on the spot, but I agree.” Felice nodded toward Lonzo. “We’ve both given our word this is between us and will never leave this room.”

  “How will it look if I hire thugs to kill the CCC boys?” asked Cavallo.

  Lonzo nodded toward Felice. Felice continued. “You don’t hire thugs, at least not now. You put the funds in a trust.”

  “Lawyers?”

  “Not that kind of trust,” said Felice. “During my time with your uncle I learned about the warehouse of heroin dumped by the aspirin company. Both Lonzo and I are aware it was sold off in New York and other cities. Your uncle said it had to be done before its potency wore off. Somewhere back then—he didn’t say the year—it was sold to organizations throughout the world disguised as being from the Orient.”

  Lonzo simply nodded agreement.

  Cavallo glanced at his uncle breathing hard and open-mouthed. “You know everything. Can I trust you tomorrow and the day after and for years to come?”

  They nodded.

  Cavallo reached across the bed with both hands to where Lonzo and Felice sat in their chairs. They grasped hands above his uncle’s legs, staring back and forth into one another’s eyes.

  “This is our ritual table,” said Cavallo. “We three share the family’s loyalty and honor. This is what I wanted for my son, and now you are my sons. We are different, yet we are the same. Do you agree to be members of the Cavallo family from this day forth?”

  “I agree to be a member of the Cavallo family,” said Felice.

  “I agree to be a member of the Cavallo family,” said Lonzo.

  “Very well,” said Cavallo. He let go of their hands. “Now, what should we do?”

  “Let Felice speak,” said Lonzo.

  Felice sat forward. “Your uncle told me about the Jew.”

  “The Jew?”

  “Yes, the last one you dealt with is neither Italian nor Sicilian. This makes his position in New York unique. With Jews being oppressed by Hitler, the moment is right for an alliance.”

  “What kind of alliance?”

  “Jews arrive in New York to escape Nazis. Last year Berlin had its Kristallnacht. Jews need to hide whatever they can. With help from your Jewish comrade, and the fact your uncle has already used a Jewish bank to place his key, it’s possible to keep funds hidden under Jewish names. No one cares about Jews, but their wealth is another story. Because the family funds are held in Swiss banks, it can be protected. War will come. Funds hidden under Jewish names is expected. After the war, the funds can be used to return honor to the Cavallo name.”

  Cavallo acknowledged Felice’s statement by reaching out again to join hands with both men, the three nodding as Uncle Rosario came awake with a spasm of coughing that shook the bed as if a bomb had been dropped on the hospital.

  Chapter 32

  Two bullet holes, one in the windshield, the other in his right foot. Although vision through the cracked windshield began blurring, he slowed in Rock Springs, careful not to attract the attention of a night shift cop. His journey east began by cutting the headlights and nudging the 350 through the locked fence. It was dead quiet, no dogs as on warning signs. He broke into the office where he’d seen emergency medical kits.

  The bullet had gone clean through, centered behind the second and third toe. A sink, clean shop towels, antiseptic, painkillers, and bandages made it possible to drive the rental Camry onto Interstate 80. His bandage job was thick, like a cast, and he found a wooden cane amongst the shop’s junk. He left a wad of cash for the truck and busted gate, confident a chop shop wouldn’t call the police. At sunup he crossed into Nebraska. At sunset, having stopped twice for gas, food, and toilet, he drove into Illinois. His foot throbbed for 1200 miles, keeping him awake. He lifted his right leg over the center console and alternately aim air-conditioned or heated air at his foot.

  Halfway through Illinois he sent Vera a text. He’d be home soon and the girls should be in bed. The message signaled Vera he’d need help.

  It seemed an ordinary weekday evening in his Orland Park neighborhood. Being close to midnight, many houses were dark, a few living rooms dancing with television flicker. He glimpsed an old black and white movie, a man and woman speaking to one another in a car, the filmed backdrop of a 1940s nighttime city scene in the car’s oval rear window. Maybe a Hitchcock movie, the two discussing the MacGuffin.

  A motion detector light on a neighbor’s garage came on as he turned onto his street. He’d placed the garage door opener on the passenger seat, allowing him to drive the Camry directly in and close the overhead door behind him. Vera was ready, having moved her Suburban over and cleared the girls’ bicycles and toys. The MacGuffin, gathered from the cache beneath the Castle Rock replica on Ute Mountain, was in the Camry’s trunk, wrapped in the tarp taken from the 350 along with shop rags he’d used for blood and prints.

  Guzzo stumbled to his knees stepping up from the attached garage into the house. Vera took over without speaking, motioning him to stay on the floor. She brought brandy, held him for several minutes, warming his hands beneath her robe, then helped him to the bedroom, past the closed door where the girls slept. Except for exclamations in Ukrainian as she cut open the cargo pants and unwrapped his foot, she didn’t speak or question him until she’d rewashed the wound, soaked it, and carefully rewrapped it.

  He lay back on pillows, taking an occasional sip of brandy as he watched Vera. She’d given him a couple Vicodins and this, combined with the brandy, calmed him. He’d completed his job, cleaning up the mess as best he could and getting back home. Vera deepened his sense of well-being by massaging his right leg and staring into his eyes from the foot of the bed. After she removed his shirt and washed bruises and scratches he’d ignored, she climbed into bed with him, holding him close, yet careful not to disturb his leg or foot. Although he continued dwelling on the assignment’s outcome, especially Niki Gianakos and others left on the mountain, hoping anyone alive was unable to identify him, Vicodin and Vera holding him wiped the slate clean.

  He awoke at 3 a.m. Vera stood
at bedside holding a soup bowl. “You slept three hours. Perhaps now you can speak?”

  “Another Vicodin.”

  “I’ve heated soup. Have some first. Please tell me we will soon be out of this business. The car you drove. I opened the trunk but did not disturb what’s inside. What can I do?”

  “Remove the Wyoming plate. If someone sees the car they’ll assume it’s a new purchase. Bring the bundle wrapped in the tarp in here. It’ll be safe in our bedroom.”

  “What is it?”

  “Believe it or not, a pile of guns and ammo from 1939.”

  “1939?”

  “Hidden by men from a CCC camp. A note in the ammo box says a man in camp murdered a local girl and he’d murder again if they didn’t act. Local justice. They killed him and made it look like an accident. Sound familiar?”

  “Why didn’t they turn him in?”

  “The note says everyone was paid off. The murderer was a mob boss’ son. Therefore my assignments. But now there’s something for us.”

  Guzzo stared at Vera a moment, feeling his beard stubble prickle his cheeks as he smiled. “The family named Cavallo, with nothing better to do with their fortune, socked money away in Swiss accounts.”

  “How is there something for us?”

  Guzzo reached down to the floor at the side of the bed, pulled his wallet from his cargo pants, removed the key, and held it up. “I’ve got this.”

  “A key?”

  “Our future, Vera. The key to a possible fortune if we make the right moves.”

  Vera took the key, staring at it as if praising an icon. “Guzzo, is the ammunition box with the note describing all this also wrapped in the tarp?”

  “Yes.”

  “We are a strange Kiev couple.” Near consciousness, the Ukrainian phrase, along with an English word, Sidekick, along with Kiev memories—syndicate strip clubs, a bomb exploding his office window, him down on the pavement outside the Chicago Blues Club, sent there by Yuri Smirnov of the Ukraine SBU. Something wrong. Smirnov asks questions yet provides few answers…

  “Janos. Janos!” A familiar voice. His sidekick!

  A blur of white and gray. “Mariya?”

  A warm hand on his cheek. “Yes, I’m here.”

  “Where?”

  “The hospital in Vernal?”

  “Vernal?”

  “Utah, Janos. Look at me. On the mountain, the van crashed, you were trapped, Niki and I came for you. The helicopter brought you. Detectives questioned us most of the night and into the morning.”

  Focus returning, the streets of Kiev receding. A hospital ceiling, hospital electronics on a stand, hospital sounds.

  “Mariya.”

  “Janos, Niki’s also here.”

  “Bandages…Mariya, your forehead…Niki, your arm. Lazlo?”

  Mariya moved closer, her breath on his face. “We’re fine, Janos. My scratches and bruises from the van wreck. Niki’s gunshot wound taken care of. Lazlo’s in another room. Despite being shot and nearly choked to death, he was able to drag himself up the stairs of the fire tower and call for help.”

  Sadness in Mariya’s eyes, something missing. Janos recalled a vague conversation, male and female doctors hovering. A decision. He reached out with his right hand and touched Mariya’s cheek, then plunged his hand beneath the blanket and discovered the void where his right leg should be. He yelled, not in English, not in Ukrainian or Hungarian. In another language reserved for moments of agony.

  The bed turned over and over, a carnival ride gone wild. A foul taste, soup half digested. The nightstand clock showed 3:22. But why p.m. instead of a.m.? Guzzo sat up, launched himself toward the open doorway, held onto the doorframe to keep from falling. He steadied himself, watching as the open door to the girls’ room slowly stopped coming up over him. He stumbled ahead. The girls’ beds unmade, dresser drawers open. He called Vera’s name but the house remained silent. Anger in his voice as if his voice knew something he did not.

  The Camry in the garage. Vera’s Suburban gone. No fresh scent of an engine recently started. The Wyoming plate still on the Camry. The kitchen showed no indication of lunch or dinner, only remaining soup in a pan. Amber Vicodin prescription container on the counter beside the stove, emptier than it had been. Next to the soup bowl a puddled soupspoon and two teaspoons with powdered remnants of crushed pills. Vertigo bouncing him off walls as he ran through the house. Message light blinking on the house phone. He pushed the play button.

  A man’s voice speaking Ukrainian. Words familiar were the Ukrainian pronunciations of Kiev and Zhulyany Airport along with an arrival time. He played the message again. The man mentioned Vera’s name at the beginning and referred to himself as Yuri at the end.

  Back in the bedroom Guzzo found the bundle of guns from 1939 and the ammo box, but the note left by the CCC men was missing. While dressing he heard a hum beneath the bed. He lifted the bed skirt and pulled out his cargo pants. He emptied the phones from the pockets and saw that the last phone he used to speak with Pescatore was lit. The message said, “Something wrong. Come to market ASAP. Someone close cannot be trusted.”

  Many hours earlier he’d spoken with Pescatore on this same phone from the restaurant in Vernal. He held his finger over the symbol that would place the call, but instead shouted to the ceiling.

  “The key! Vera!”

  The county detectives were gone, apparently back at their office comparing notes. They assigned two uniformed guards to sit outside two hospital rooms. Second shift nursing staff considered Janos’ request strange; the doctors on duty did not. Janos wanted the leg saved. The doctors insisted they would have tried reattachment, but it was badly crushed and too much time had passed. To satisfy Janos, Niki called Jacobsen. Shortly thereafter, a call to the hospital director from higher authority did the job and Niki had no trouble convincing the staff to carefully wrap the leg and put it in a freezer for safekeeping.

  Niki and Mariya spent the day alternating between Lazlo’s room and Janos’ room, doors closed to keep out hallway noise. Because of Mariya’s forehead bandage and Niki’s arm sling, they looked like street brawl leftovers. With the second bed in Janos’ room empty they were finally able to convince staff to move Lazlo from his room so they could be together. Two recliners were wheeled in. Niki and Mariya took turns resting, but mostly used their phones trying to make sense of what had happened recently, and in 1939. After dinner brought in by staff, when it was obvious both Lazlo and Janos were asleep, Niki and Mariya spoke quietly.

  “The glimpse you managed at the note in the ammunition box. Have you thought of anything else on it?” asked Mariya.

  “It was so fast. A glimpse into the past.”

  Lazlo interrupted, speaking with eyes closed, his chin tucked into a padded collar. “If only I hadn’t lost my gun. If only I’d turned him over and held him down. If only I’d gained the upper hand. He was strong. But not so strong the three of us would not have been able to hold him if I’d flipped him at the right moment. CCC men from 1939 could have dealt with him. Their spirits are here, in the mountains.”

  “You did everything you could,” said Niki.

  “I agree,” said Mariya. “There’s a trail of your blood up the fire tower stairway.”

  Lazlo again, “I’m sorry, Niki. You were recalling the note.”

  “An explanation with lots of signatures. I recall the words murder and justice. Murder in the first paragraph, along with a name, Salvatore. My guess is someone named Salvatore had, according to the signers, committed murder. It had to be Rose Buckles. Her niece and others in the area pretty much confirmed it.”

  Lazlo and Mariya remained silent. Janos snored gently. Niki continued.

  “Something in the second paragraph, the word justice in the second paragraph surrounded by other words…I think had to be done, something like that. Also, the word Hoods stood ou
t. The note had been in the box a long time. It was yellowed and stained green from old bullet shells. I did the best I could before he saw me. He checked the guns before moving them, but I was worried he’d think I’d loaded one and end up getting us all shot. The thing I remember most clearly was the bottom of the note. Scrawled signatures, pretty much impossible to read, but someone did print below the signatures, in all caps, THE MEN FROM BARRACKS THREE.”

  Chicago’s so-called rush hour, lasting hours, made Guzzo’s drive to the fish market a nightmare. Women in other vehicles reminded him of Vera. Every back seat with children reminded him of the girls. Perhaps Vera was frightened. Yet there was the phone message. Was it a threat from her past? A man calling from Ukraine to intimidate her? But there was that name, Yuri. A man making a threat would remain anonymous. Crawling in traffic was like the flow of blood, his anger quickening his heartbeat. Although the Vicodin was starting to wear off, he was still dizzy. His foot throbbed and the Glock in his rear waistband pressed into his spine.

  Nearing the fish market, an old man with a cane walking on the sidewalk reminded him of the so-called “accidents” he’d staged. All the elaborate plans created and executed successfully for this? Driving in traffic to either threaten Pescatore or ask for help from this man he now despised more than ever?

  After getting out of the Camry, a large African-American man he’d seen about the place passed him wheeling a 50 gallon barrel. The man’s coveralls were stained with fish blood and guts. Guzzo noticed in his peripheral vision the man glancing at him.

  “From Wyoming?” asked the man.

  “The car is,” said Guzzo, continuing his limp up the ramp to the office with the help of the cane he’d brought with him from Rock Springs.

  As usual it was noisy in the building. Another large African-American man he did not recognize dumped bucket after bucket of fish guts into the fish grinder. Pescatore was behind his stainless steel fish table wiping his filleting knife in his apron. Guzzo held himself up with his cane, removed his Glock from his rear waistband, and aimed at Pescatore.