by Dan Willis
“True,” he said, his easy voice acquiring a hard edge. “While he was trying to abduct a policeman, no less. That was Tiger’s decision. I never would have approved it. That’s the problem with police insiders, they don’t understand the delicate balance between the police and independent entrepreneurs like myself.”
Alex wanted to laugh at that remark, but decided discretion was the better part of valor.
“You were there when my man was shot,” Lucky Tony said, in an offhand manner. “Who was it that shot him?”
Alex suddenly had trouble breathing. That had been over ten years ago, but the memory was clear in his mind. The mobster in question had been blinded by a flash rune but he still had his gun. His vision had cleared just as Alex was right in front of him and when the gunshot sounded, Alex knew he’d been shot. It wasn’t him though. Danny’s sister Amy had picked up a dropped gun and killed the man with one bullet. The fact that Lucky Tony wanted to know the identity of the shooter terrified him.
“I did,” Alex said without hesitation.
Of all the reactions Alex expected, he didn’t count on Tony Casetti laughing.
“That’s what I like about you, Alex,” he said, shaking his head. “You’ve got chutzpah and you’re loyal. I know it was that pretty nurse down in Philadelphia, but you were ready to take the rap anyway.”
Alex had to work to keep his breathing even, but his fist clenched in spite of himself. The mob boss noticed and laughed heartily.
“Never fear, Alex,” he said. “I have no quarrel with her or her detective brother. That entire incident was Tiger’s fault.”
Alex spared him a glance, and Tony gave him a knowing look.
“Of course I wouldn’t move against either of them even if I did hold a grudge,” he said. “They’re…protected.”
This time Alex wasn’t surprised. Danny and Amy’s father ran the Japanese Mafia in Manhattan, after all.
“So if you’re not upset about the loss of your inside man,” Alex ventured, “why did you have your friends back there invite me out for this chat?”
Lucky Tony smiled at him again, and he reached out to put his arm around Alex’s shoulder. It made Alex shiver.
“I’m not holding a grudge,” he said. “But you do owe me for messing up my organization, so I’ve come up with a way for you to square your debt to me.”
Alex didn’t even want to think about what a mob boss might want him to do. That said, settling a marker with Lucky Tony, whether it really existed or not, was definitely a good thing.
“How can I help?” he said.
7
The Legitimate Businessman
“I need you to find someone,” Lucky Tony Casetti said as they arrived at a small flat spot that overlooked the next green. “That’s your specialty, correct?” The mob boss set down his bag and made a show of selecting one of the clubs with a wide, wooden head.
“That depends,” Alex said. “This person you’re looking for…why do you want him?”
Tony stopped fiddling with hid clubs and turned to give Alex a hard look. For his part, Alex tried not to sweat, the chill weather notwithstanding.
“That’s kind of a long story,” Lucky Tony said.
“My schedule is clear,” Alex replied.
Tony held his gaze for a long moment, then he nodded.
“All right,” he said, pulling out one of his clubs. He walked to the edge of the flat space and bent down, sticking a wooden tee into the turf and leaving a golf ball on top of it. “It used to be that a man in my position had the world by the tail,” he said with a wistful sigh. “When Prohibition was the law people would beat a path to my door. Everybody wanted a drink, and I was there to supply them. Even if the cops shut down one of my speakeasies, a new one would be up and running the next day.” He chuckled, “Sometimes the same night.”
“So, you’re looking for someone you knew twenty years ago?” Alex asked.
Lucky Tony chuckled. It wasn’t a pleasant sound.
“Patience, Alex,” he said, stepping up to his golf ball. He held the club against the little white sphere, then hauled back and smacked it down the center of the fairway. “That’s a pretty shot,” he said, more to himself than to Alex. Turning, he tossed the club to Alex. “Since I’m playing storyteller, you can play caddy,” he said. “Grab my bag.”
Alex held the club for a moment, but decided not to argue with the crime boss. He dropped the club into the bag and picked it up, slinging the strap over his shoulder.
“Do you know how to make a fortune, Alex?” he asked as they headed out toward where the ball had flown.
Alex shrugged.
“Not really.”
“Well, then let me give you the golden key to business,” Tony said. “You make a fortune when you provide a good or service that people want badly enough that they come to you to get it.”
“Beer during prohibition,” Alex said, understanding.
“Exactly. Now that beer is legal again, people aren’t beating a path to my door anymore. Sure we’ve got gambling parlors, bookies, and the odd brothel, but those don’t do the kind of volume of the old speakeasies. The only thing that was really raking in the money was the slot machines.”
Up until recently, every five and dime and hardware store had a slot machine or two on the counter. Alex had heard that most of them were owned by the various mob families rather than the shop owners themselves.
“And the Governor just banned slot machines,” Alex said. “So business is bad.”
“Bad is an understatement,” Tony said. “The other families don’t see it yet, but with business opportunities shrinking, a turf war is inevitable.”
Alex didn’t want to believe that. It had been over a decade since there was open mob war in the streets of New York, and people still talked about it in hushed tones. Some of the older detectives at the Central Office told stories that gave Alex the shivers.
“So you’re looking for a way to get out ahead of all this?” Alex asked, trying not to sound spooked.
“Nope,” Tony said, pulling another club out of his bag. He walked up to where his ball lay among the tall grass and squared up to it. “I’m going to do the most cliché thing a mobster can do.” He drew the club up over his shoulder, then smacked the ball, sending it hurtling toward the green in the distance.
“What’s that?” Alex pressed.
Tony looked at him with a sly grin.
“I’m going to become a legitimate businessman.”
“You’re getting out?”
It was difficult to believe, but everything in Lucky Tony’s story seemed to point to that conclusion as the only viable option available. With the easy cash businesses drying up, the Rosonos would have to fight for the few resources left. Tony might be a mobster, but he was also a graduate of a prestigious business school. If anyone could figure a way to go legit, it was him.
Alex pushed those thoughts aside. Lucky Tony might be smart, and cultured, and a decent golfer, but he was still a mob boss. That was a job you didn’t hold on to by being a nice person. It was probably best for Alex to get on with the job.
“What does this have to do with your missing man?” he asked.
Tony slid his club back in the bag at Alex’s shoulder, then unzipped his sweater, revealing a button-up shirt. He pulled a small picture from the breast pocket and handed it to Alex.
“That’s my nephew, Colton Pierce,” Tony said, zipping his sweater closed again.
Alex looked at the picture. It was a close-up of a thin man in his thirties with thick spectacles and dark curly hair that he kept cut short. His face was narrow with a long, pointed nose and a crooked smile. Alex half expected him to be carrying a book, though the picture only showed him from the chest up.
“Colton is a professor at George Washington University,” Tony went on. “He’s been missing for two days and no one seems to know where he went. The Dean of the Alchemy School said that Colton had been on sabbatical for a semester, so
no one at the university knew he was missing. According to his landlady, his rent is paid up through the end of the month. It’s like he dropped off the planet.”
“Colton teaches Alchemy?” Alex asked, taking out his folding notebook.
Tony nodded, then stopped.
“Hold still,” he said, then unzipped a pocket on the outside of the golf bag. From inside, he took two green bottles of beer. Producing a church key from his trouser pocket, he flipped the caps off both of them and held them up to Alex.
“You strike me as the suspicious type,” he said. “Pick one.”
Alex took the bottle on his right and Lucky Tony took a long swig from the other. Before raising the bottle himself, Alex looked at the printed label on the bottle. There was a picture of a cottage on it, the kind storybooks always used for tales that started with, Once upon a time. The word Homestead was written in a simple script above the cottage with the words, Welcome Home, below it.
Alex had never heard of this brand, but Tony was eyeing him expectantly, so he raised the bottle to his lips and took a drink. As beer went, it was pleasant enough, but nothing compared to a good single malt. He was about to say that when a sudden euphoria washed over him. It seemed to spread out from his middle, tingling as it went. As the sensation reached his head, Alex had a sudden memory fill his mind. It was the smell of potato soup, the way Sister Gwen used to make it. The smell brought with it a thousand thoughts and impressions, memories of growing up at the Brotherhood of Hope, of practicing his runes by candle-light , and of the encouragement and patience that Father Harry had given him.
The feeling lingered for a few moments, then the cacophony of memories faded away, leaving only a warm, comforting feeling behind. It took Alex half a minute to remember he was standing outside, drinking with a mob boss, in the chill December air.
“Quite the kick, isn’t it?” Tony said, taking another long pull from his bottle.
“You’ve added something to it,” Alex said, staring at the bottle. “Some kind of alchemical ingredient.”
“Euphorian,” Tony said. “Colton invented it. A few ounces in a vat of beer and anyone who drinks it will experience the feelings of their best moments.”
“What happens if they drink too much?” Alex wondered.
Tony actually laughed at that.
“You can’t,” he said. “The body can only absorb a small amount of Euphorian at a time. So it’s not addictive and you can’t overdose. It just does what beer is supposed to do,” he raised his bottle in a salute, “it makes you happy.”
“Doesn’t regular beer do that too?” Alex asked.
“Sure, but you don’t have to get drunk this way.”
Alex took another swig and felt the emotions of a hundred forgotten memories wash over him.
Lucky Tony is going to make a fortune.
“So you need Colton or this whole deal is moot,” Alex said, “but no one knows where Colton is.”
Lucky Tony’s contented smile disappeared.
“It’s worse than that,” he said. “I had one of my boys keeping an eye on Colton. Last night they pulled his body out of the Potomac. According to the cops, someone worked him over pretty good before they tossed him.”
Alex’s mind snapped into focus.
“Could this be some rival?” Alex asked. “Maybe they grabbed him to…”
“To make a point?” Tony said, his voice hard. “Yes, I thought of that. But Colton isn’t part of my business, so he’s not a legitimate target. Besides, if someone took him to get back at me, they would have killed him and left his body where it would be easy for me to find. You can’t make your point if no one finds the body.”
The matter-of-fact tone Lucky Tony used when he explained his thinking made Alex shiver. He had no doubt the man knew what he was talking about, likely from experience.
“What about ransom?”
Tony shook his head.
“They would have made their demands by now,” he said. “Waiting only works on worried parents.”
Alex considered that as he made more notes.
“Who else knows about Euphorian?”
“Nobody,” Tony said. “Colton told me and only me.”
“You told me,” Alex said.
“I did that because of Sal,” Tony explained, “that’s my man that was found in the river. If he’s dead and Colton’s missing…”
“Then Colton might be dead too,” Alex caught on. “And if Colton’s dead, you still need me to find the formula for Euphorian.”
Tony nodded and finished his beer, though this time he didn’t smile.
“Colton has an apartment in Georgetown,” he said. He waved at his goons who had been following along at a respectful distance. “Connie will take you over there. I understand you need something of Colton’s to use your finding rune, the more personal the better.”
Alex nodded as the flat-faced man from the car stepped up next to him.
“I’ll start with the finding rune,” Alex said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and it’ll locate him quickly.”
“What if it doesn’t?” Tony asked.
“Then I’ll start looking the old-fashioned way,” Alex explained. “I’ll try to retrace his steps on the day he disappeared. I’ll also check his apartment for his recipe book, but that’s just as likely to be in a safe deposit box at his bank.”
“Colton has an account at Capital Bank,” Tony supplied, then he took his bag from Alex and headed toward the green. “Keep me appraised of your progress.”
Alex started to turn away, but Tony called him back.
“I’m not a good man, Alex,” he said in a mild voice. “I can understand if a man like you doesn’t care what happens to me. It might have been a stroke of good fortune that just when I need you, you show up here in D.C. , but understand I didn’t want you for this job because you’re a fellow New Yorker. I’ve done my homework on you, Alex. You see yourself as a white knight, riding to the rescue of the innocent. So I want to be perfectly clear, Colton is a good man. He’s never been a part of my business. He’s just someone who’s in trouble, and he needs you to find him.”
For the briefest of moments, Alex thought Lucky Tony looked small, standing alone in the tall grass with his bag slung over his shoulder. Just like any other person might look when missing a family member. The vision passed quickly as Alex remembered who, exactly, he was looking at, but the impression remained. This was just another case where someone needed his help.
“I understand,” Alex said, looking the mob boss in the eyes. “If Colton’s alive, I’ll find him, and if he’s not…I’ll find that out, too.”
Tony held his gaze for another moment, then nodded and turned away.
The Georgetown townhome of Colton Pierce reminded Alex of Iggy’s New York brownstone. It was a tall, narrow building nestled in the middle of a long row of similar homes. The most pronounced difference was the lack of the dark bricks that gave brownstones their name.
As Lucky Tony had ordered, the flat-faced goon, Connie, had driven Alex from the golf course to Georgetown. It was a surprisingly short journey, despite the fact that Connie didn’t say a word for the entire trip.
“Do you have a key?” Alex asked as he climbed the stairs to the white front door.
Connie just nodded and produced a small ring of keys form his pocket. He unlocked the door, then reached into his overcoat where Alex knew his holster hung. With his hand on his hidden gun, Connie opened the door and stepped in, turning his head quickly as he swept the room for possible threats.
Alex wasn’t particularly worried that someone would be lying in wait at Colton’s empty home, but he supposed Connie had been a bodyguard for a long time and old habits died hard.
“It’s clear,” the broad man said in his deep, growling voice. If Lucky Tony was the exact opposite of a movie gangster, Connie was every stereotype Alex had ever seen rolled into one. He had a slight Jersey accent, but better diction that Alex would have expected; obviously be
ing around Lucky Tony had influenced him. Connie was big and squarish with the kind of face that made you want to avoid him without even trying.
The big mobster stepped to the side and Alex followed him in. The front room of Colton’s home was neat with a couch and a coffee table for guests. A round throw rug occupied most of the floor, and there was an end table with a Victor radio on top against the far wall. A mantle of dark wood ran over a small hearth which was covered by a metal screen and looked like it hadn’t been used in years. On top of the mantle were pictures and other knick-knacks. Alex recognized Colton in several of the photos that ranged from him as a young man to one of him behind what had to be his desk in the university.
Everything in the front room was neat and orderly, the sign of an organized mind, but a thick layer of dust was also present. Alex took down the central picture on the mantle and wiped away the dust with his handkerchief. Underneath was a picture of a cozy cottage home, probably from somewhere upstate, and an older man and woman standing arm in arm. In their smiling faces, Alex could see the shadow of Colton.
“Must be his parents,” Alex said, replacing the photograph. He took out his chalk, then stepped over to the blank wall beside the radio and end table before drawing a door.
“What are you doing?” his watchdog growled. Alex wondered if his voice just lent itself to sounding irritated or if the man was taken aback by the chalk lines on the wall.
“Opening my vault,” Alex said, pulling out his rune book. “I need to get my investigation kit. Don’t worry…Connie, was it?”
“Constantine Firenze,” he said. “But you can call me Connie.” He actually smiled, and Alex almost did a double take.
“Well, don’t worry, Connie,” Alex continued. “I’ll clean up after I’m done.”
Alex stuck a vault rune paper to the wall, then quickly lit it. Connie took a step back when the heavy steel door melted out of the plaster on the wall. Alex didn’t want to give the gangster a good look at his vault, so he unlocked the door with his key and then pulled it open just wide enough to get his bag from the table next to the door.
