The Fourth Gunman

by John Lansing

  * * *

  Vincent Cardona’s Chop House was in full swing. Standing room only at the bar, while the piano man belted out show tunes. But Cardona, who had just fielded a call from Rusty, was purple with rage. He stepped into his office, threw back a shot, and dialed a number.

  “So where did you say Bertolino was headed?” It was his quiet, deadly voice.

  Peter Maniacci was leaning against his green Plymouth, parked in the middle of the desert. He had contemplated calling the boss, dreaded the conversation, and wasn’t surprised when his cell trilled. The I-15 freeway could be seen in the distance. A solid ribbon of red taillights pointed toward the bright lights of Las Vegas, creating a white crown on the horizon. The night sky was alive with star fields, and the craters of the moon could be seen with the naked eye. All of it lost on Peter, who knew he’d been suckered and was in deep shit.

  “Boss, he must have found the bug on his car. That’s all I can come up with. I don’t know how it ended up out here—”

  “Where are you?” Cardona said cutting him off.

  “I’m standing in the middle of bumfuck, a half hour shy of the Strip, and I don’t know where the hell the prick is.”

  “He’s on the ship,” Cardona hissed.

  Peter rubbed his temple with his free hand; he knew there was no reasonable response. Bertolino had done it again.

  “Did you hear what I said? He’s on the fucking yacht. And guess who he’s with?”

  Peter remained mute.

  “Not too good at this game, are you? He’s with my daughter.” Cardona let that sink in. And then, with the slickness of a python, “But hey, I bet you’re tired. Why don’t you keep going and get a room for the night. Play a few hands, have a few drinks.”

  “Really?” Peter’s cell connection pixilated, and he wasn’t sure what he had heard.

  “Yeah, yeah, really, and tomorrow, you prick, you keep fucking driving to New York, and you can tell the East Coast families where their money is and where the thief is hiding.”

  “I’ll be back in three hours.”

  Cardona hung up.

  Peter clicked off his phone. “Fuckin’ Bertolino,” he raged at the moon. He pulled out his 9mm. He wanted to kill someone, shoot something, but he was the only douche standing in the middle of the desert. And so he emptied his clip, blowing the pulpy arm off an ancient, protected thirty-foot saguaro cactus.

  Peter jumped into his car, did a dust-raising U-turn, and sped back toward the I-15 south and a world of hurt.

  * * *

  “You’ve got a new scar,” Angelica said, tracing Terrence Dirk’s near-lethal attack with a delicate finger. It was Dirk’s brutal jab to Jack’s forehead that had broken the skin over his right eye. Eighteen stitches that left a reminder.

  “I’m starting to feel like a junkyard dog. How about you? You look terrific.”

  “But?” she said, killer eyes creasing into a smile.

  “How’re you doing?”

  “I’m doing okay. It feels empowering not to need my father’s money.”

  Angelica had been kidnapped and imprisoned for over a month while rich, politically connected men negotiated her value as a sex slave. The story had gained international notoriety when a YouTube video surfaced of Angelica being held captive in a glass-enclosed prison, tearing up a monologue from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Jack broke the case and saved her life. The story garnered international coverage, and a Hollywood producer paid them both handsomely for the film rights.

  “I wouldn’t be alive to collect the windfall if you hadn’t come into my life.”

  “That’s a good thing,” Jack said, trying to slow things down, and waited for Angelica to continue.

  “There’s no easy answer, Jack. Some days I’m cool. Therapy helps. I’m back at the Strasberg Institute, taking scene study. And some days I still feel like I’m drowning. Less and less, so I guess I’m pretty good. All things considered.”

  “All things considered, you look like you’re doing great.”

  “I started to call you a thousand times.”

  “I dialed your number,” Jack said, not knowing why he was opening that door. Where were his governors? No good could come of taking their relationship any further.

  “I know the math is holding you back,” she said.

  Why the hell did she have to be so damn smart? Jack thought, pissed that he was careening the wrong way down a one-way street. He had work to do, and Angelica was the last person who should be on his mind. He wondered if Cardona knew where his daughter was.

  “My father doesn’t know I’m here. Well, he probably knows by now. But he wants me to be happy. He’s worried about me.”

  And Jack was worried the young woman was reading his mind. He cleared all thoughts and became mesmerized by the beauty of her knowing smile. They took a drink of champagne at exactly the same moment and Jack choked back a laugh.

  “Do you know why I’m here?” he asked.

  “Luke’s disappearance.”

  “Any thoughts? Any ideas where he might be?”

  “I didn’t have too much contact with the man. He was an enigma.”

  “How so?”

  “Just a feeling I got when I was around him. He was guarded. Like someone in my acting class might be. Afraid to reveal too much of himself. Dad said he was good at what he did. Didn’t seem the type to take the money and run. He had too much class for that. An uncommon trait in Dad’s crew.”

  Mateo walked through the door and ambled over, hand outstretched to greet Angelica.

  Jack excused himself, saying he had business to attend to and they would continue their conversation at a later date.

  Angelica understood Jack was on the clock and let him off the hook with “Count on it.”

  * * *

  Jack stood with Caroline Boudreau on the heliport at the bow of the ship. The lights on the mainland glittered in the distance and a light ocean breeze buffeted their hair. Caroline’s stature and elegance could dress up a string of pearls and screamed old-world money. Her Southern accent was lyrical; her eyes were engaging and used to great effect, putting members of the opposite sex at ease or anywhere else she pleased. But none of it held sway over Jack. He was there to do a job and wasn’t going to stop until he found Luke Hunter. Dead or alive.

  “We threw big parties,” Caroline said, pulling a strand of hair off her face. “The biggest, swankiest, hippest, most decadent parties in the French Quarter. And that’s saying something. Paul Prudhomme catered from his restaurant, K-Paul’s, and the Learjets would fly in from Europe and beyond. It was quite the spectacle.”

  “What did your father do for a living?”

  “My father was one of the original jet-setters,” she said by way of answering. “They did a Life magazine spread on him and a few of his intimate friends back in the early sixties.”

  “So, he didn’t work?” Jack asked.

  “He didn’t have to. Oh, he dabbled, dabbled in real estate. Played the market. But we were living off the accumulated wealth of a hundred successful years of commerce. We believed it would last forever. There was no reason not to.”

  “How did your father get hooked up with the Mob?”

  “It was something about the swagger of the made men. Kind of like you. That machismo you give off. They’d come to parties, turn heads, dominate the conversation, and rich men cowed to them. My father got sucked in and started to emulate them. Thought they were friends, thought he had it under control. The man foolishly thought he was in control.”

  Jack had heard it all before. But he wanted to keep Caroline talking. “Where did it go wrong?”

  “Franklin was better at spending than creating or even holding on to his fortune. The banking crisis of 2008, the recession, almost took him down for the count. The housing bubble, when it finally burst, crippled him. His properties started to fall like dominoes. He leaned on his ‘friends’ to shore up the dam. They were only too happy to lend a hand. And then they started sq
ueezing.

  “Franklin became depressed. Fond of saying he’d rather be dead than poor. And when his philandering dick became smaller than his growing vig, he took the path of least resistance.”

  “How did he die?”

  “A bottle of Macallan 25 and a silver-plated .38. The man always had style.”

  Jack was impressed with Caroline’s brutal honesty. “What about your mother? Brother? Sisters?”

  “No, no, and no. Mother died of breast cancer the summer of ’85, and I was an only child. And, as you can imagine, spoiled rotten.

  “The big surprise came when our lawyer read the will. I was left with a frightening IRS bill. After consolidating the family’s holdings, I was told in no uncertain terms that I was still in major debt to the Mafia.

  “The Bella Fortuna was my only asset. And pushing fifty, throwing parties was my only marketable skill set.”

  Caroline probed Jack’s eyes to see if he was being judgmental. She got his poker face.

  “I’m not ashamed,” she said with a bit too much attitude. “It was how I was raised. All I knew.”

  Jack remained silent, and Caroline got defensive. Her voice, brittle. “So sue me. It was a match made in greed, and I cut a deal with the devil.

  “I have a five-year plan, and all things being equal, I hope to find myself free and clear and able to buy my partners out with enough set aside for a comfortable retirement.”

  Jack knew that was never going to happen. It wasn’t the way the Mob operated. Once they had their hooks in you, they would suck you dry and leave you bleeding on the side of the road. Or at the bottom of the ocean. He was pretty sure Caroline, when she woke up at two o’clock in the morning, was aware of that.

  “Or I’ll marry into the life I’ve grown accustomed to,” she said, flashing a smile that could open a miser’s wallet. “One of my high rollers.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Don’t condescend, Jack. You don’t wear it well.”

  “Okay.”

  “It was a compliment.”

  Jack didn’t have a response to that.

  “Do I have something to be worried about?” she asked, in full recovery now. As if she could change Jack’s answer by willing it so.

  “Not if you’re honest with me, Caroline. My only interest in this case is finding Luke Donato. You’re underwater financially, and an infusion of cash could change your life. Did Luke ever approach you about cutting a side deal? Skim the profits, cook the books, and guarantee you the success you deserve? If he was dirty, it’s a move that would make sense.”

  “No,” she snapped, not happy with the direction the interrogation was taking.

  “Talk about your relationship,” Jack said, easing up before he pushed Caroline away. “Your take on his disappearance and his relationships with the crew. I know nothing happens on your yacht without your scrutiny.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, Jack. I run a tight ship. Luke worked for Vincent Cardona, but he was a mystery.”

  “How so?”

  “He had the look, but he outclassed the rest of his crew. If he wasn’t young enough to be my son, I would’ve . . . But it was pure business between the two of us. A fun flirt. He made me feel young.”

  “Was he dating anyone in particular?”

  “Luke knew how to play women. If he wasn’t on Vincent’s payroll, I would have hired him myself. He was good for business. But no, no one on the crew. No one that I was aware of, and I would’ve known.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “He disappeared, and so did the money.”

  “How much are we talking about?” Jack asked, testing Caroline.

  “Four hundred and seventy-five thousand, give or take. What do they say . . . follow the money, and you’ll find Luke.”

  “Not enough for a new start,” Jack said, running the numbers in his head. “If that’s what he was after. He could’ve done better staying the course.”

  “I agree, and that’s why I’m so concerned. It wasn’t a big enough bankroll to change his life . . . but more than enough to take his life.”

  “I’ll want to go over your list of the crew. Get your insight on every member. Work history, past history, dreams, affairs, anything you discovered while working shoulder to shoulder training these people.”

  “Are you going to interview my people on board?”

  “Some, but they might talk more freely on their own turf,” he said. “A list of phone numbers and addresses would help. And then I’ll need a copy of the security tapes the night Luke disappeared. In fact, three months before and the weeks since his disappearance, see if it shakes something loose.”

  “Why three months?” she said, keeping the resistance out of her voice.

  “If he took the money, it didn’t happen overnight. I need to see his movements on board, who he connected with, who he snubbed. I’ll also need a client list for the same time period. I won’t tap that well unless it becomes imperative.”

  Caroline’s eyes darkened, the defensive mama bear worried about killing her golden goose. But Vincent Cardona had anointed Jack, and she knew better than to say no.

  “Hold for a second,” she said, pulling out her cell. “Trent, can you meet me on the bridge? I need help downloading the digital files of the security tapes. The last three months should do it. Thanks, hon.” And then Caroline put on the happy face. The transition was seamless. “I’ll have a full package for you in the morning. You go over the lists, check out the tapes, and I’ll make myself available. Anything I can do to help. Now, why don’t you take a look around, have a few laughs; I have to make sure my clientele is being cared for. Rich men are like children. They get needy their last night out.”

  Jack waited until Caroline walked back into the main salon and checked the players sitting at the poker table through the bay window. The Indonesian gentleman Jack had taken for a few thousand the night before was at the table, sitting in the same seat. Superstitious, Jack thought, and it wasn’t working. A rather large Russian was adding a tall stack of black chips to his winnings. Good for ten grand, Jack thought. The redheaded bartender was pouring drinks, and he decided to head in her direction. Bartenders generally had a finger on the pulse of the room.

  Jack paused when he saw Mateo escorting Angelica down the gangplank to the waiting water taxi. She turned before boarding, caught Jack’s eye, and broke into a mischievous smile that he felt in his chest. Their conversation would be continued.

  * * *

  As Jack started toward the door, Rusty Mannuzza stepped out of the salon like a bantam rooster, blocking his entrance.

  “Jack, I like your style. She’s a little young for you, no?”

  “Rusty, you’re on my list, we need to talk.”

  “Jack, you do what you gotta do, but stay outta my way, huh? I’ve got a business to run.”

  “That was quick.”

  “Meaning?” Rusty challenged.

  “You appear to be the only man who benefited from Luke’s disappearance.”

  “Don’t go there, Jack. It wouldn’t be a smart move. I got the skinny on you from my cousin. My Staten Island cuz. Said he ran into your mother at Tucci’s Deli.”

  Rusty was playing a dangerous game, but Jack wasn’t biting.

  “Think you’re a big shot, Jack? Why don’t you stick to cradle robbing? I’m sure Mr. Cardona will have something to say about that.”

  “Where were you the night Luke disappeared, Rusty? Say about two a.m.”

  “Bangin’ your mother.”

  Jack’s arm snaked out and grabbed Rusty by the throat. He spun the wiry man around and muscled him backward over the banister, out of sight of the players in the salon. Rusty’s face reddened as he fought Jack’s grip and fought to breathe.

  “I had a cat named Rusty,” Jack said, voice low. “He always landed on his feet. You won’t be so lucky.”

  Jack released Rusty, who staggered, gasped for air, and contemplated pulling h
is gun, then wisely vetoed what would have been his last move. With blazing eyes and a strained rasp, “You’re a dead man, Bertolino.” Rusty straightened his tie, buttoned his tight-fitting jacket, and strode past the gamblers, up the stairs, disappearing onto the bridge.

  “You make friends everywhere you go,” Mateo said, walking up the hallway, a big grin on his face.

  “It’s a gift.”

  “Cruz called. Rusty’s Jag’s set up with GPS. He’s got it synced to my iPhone and his. At least we’ll know the route they take for the dropoff. See if anything sparks.”

  “Good work. Get some sleep when you’re done and we’ll compare notes in the afternoon. How’s the action?”

  “I was down ten, and I made twenty on the last hand. The man in the gray suit, Indonesian, name’s Sukarno, a bad player, a worse loser.”

  “I took a few dollars off him last night.”

  “I want to get back to the table and salt his wounds. Not getting much from the heavy rollers except their money.”

  “What about the Russian?”

  “The bear? Methodical but angry. He’s knocking back hundred-proof Stoli like Kool-Aid. The more he drinks, the more he wins.”

  “You think he’s Russian Mafia?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me, but I don’t think the affiliation would sit well with Cardona, no? These players have to be vetted.”

  Jack didn’t disagree. “I’ll run the list by Agent Hunter in the morning. See what they’ve got on him.”

  “I’ll fill you in later, boss.” Mateo headed for his seat at the central table and was greeted by a smiling Doris with a fresh Grey Goose on the rocks. The Russian raked a stack of black chips off the felt and Jack made his way to the bar.

  * * *

  Jack felt a hot flash of pain streak down his back, grabbed a water bottle from a silver ice bucket, and chased a Vicodin with a sip of spring water. Roxy stayed busy, respecting Jack’s privacy until he shifted his focus to her.