The short list, p.11
The Short List, page 11
“I’m not lying. You can find out. Make your calls. You’ll see.”
“Like I said, say it’s true. So fucking what?”
I took a deep breath and let it out. “I gotta explain this to you?”
He slid the knife down my cheek. I don’t think he drew blood, but when he poked the tip under my chin, I felt the bite and a drop well up under the blade. “Nah, we can skip all of this and get straight to the good stuff.”
“Think about it. They want me whacked, so they send Fortunato? Why? He’s a bodyguard, not a button man.”
“Maybe he’s got multiple talents. Why do I give a shit?”
“Because they picked him.”
“So?”
“So they didn’t pick you.”
He gave me a confused look, lowering the knife. “What’re you talking about?”
“Keeping a lid on this place might be what you’re doing now,” I explained, “but we both know it’s not what you’re best at. If they’d have sent you to clip me, would I be sitting here now? Or would you have gotten the job done right there at the diner, unlike Fortunato?”
He peered at me, confusion still clouding his gaze. “If I get sent to do a job, it gets done. But I still don’t—”
“That’s what I’m saying,” I interrupted. “You’re the right man for the job, but they don’t send you? You gotta wonder why. You gotta wonder if that means you don’t factor into their long range plans, or maybe not even their short range ones. You gotta wonder—”
“I don’t wonder jack shit,” Vito protested. “Believe me.”
“Why did they send Fortunato, then?”
“How the fuck am I supposed to know?”
I pushed forward. “More importantly, why didn’t they send you?”
Vito just stared at me. “You’re a crazy bitch,” he muttered.
“Why, Vito?” I pressed. “Why didn’t they send you to clip me?”
As I spoke, the door to the room swung open. Vito’s eyes went to that direction, and mine followed. Max DaCosta stood in the doorway, his calm demeanor washing outward toward us both.
“I believe I can answer that question,” DaCosta said, and closed the door behind him.
21
CAMERON
Now I was pissed. And hurt. The stab wound wasn’t as painful as I had feared. Maybe it was just endorphins or something, but it was more of a sore ache that burrowed deep into my gut than a sharp, searing pain. And it leaked only a little blood, considering.
Famous last words, right?
But now I was on the hunt and I couldn’t stop to go to a hospital or anything. Whatever doubts I had about what I was doing had faded away. Fazzio had tried to kill me, twice now. Granted I came after him this last time, but I think it was my hesitation that kept me from doing the job.
Everything had happened so fast—my escape, meeting Vincent, finding Aunt Ruby and then seeking out Fazzio had been a blur. I was still so keyed up from surviving that blacked out room that I hadn’t had much time to stop and think over what I was doing. I guess I treated it like a job. My new target was Fazzio and Son.
Oh, yeah, Pops—I’m coming for you too.
My waiting and wondering was over. I was a bulldog, a bloodhound. On the scent, out for a pound of flesh. I wasn’t leaving this town until the threat against me had been neutralized. Chances were I’d be making new enemies who may likely come after me in the future. But for now, I wanted blood.
Tag and Boyd got me to their car and let me slump in the back seat. They’d done okay for amateurs, but they were battered and more than a little freaked out by the killings.
When they dumped me, each stood up and surveyed their wounds.
“Fuckin’ A,” Tag said. Boyd nodded along. That about summed it up.
“Thanks,” I said.
“I should be thanking you,” Tag said. “That knife was coming for me if you hadn’t stepped in there.”
“I know my way around a gun. I thought it was better if I held it.”
“Yeah, but.” He pointed at my side and the dark stain of blood leaking down my shirt and into the top of my pants. “You got fucking stuck.”
“Yeah, that sucked.”
Boyd kept a hand pressed to his scalp. Blood ran down behind his ear, slicked down his hair in back and stained his collar. “We gotta get you to a hospital.”
“I got one better.”
I gave them directions to Vincent’s. His wife was not happy about someone banging on the door at that late hour, but Vincent himself seemed pleased to see me again, and even more pleased that I needed more stitching.
“For this I can only close it,” he said as he prepped a new needle and thread. “You really need to get a doctor in there to sew up the inside stuff.”
“I know,” I said. “And I will. But I got a few things to do first.”
“Fazzio,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“You use the gun I gave you?”
I took his little pea shooter out of my pocket and handed it back to him, then drew Charlie’s gun from my waistband and showed Vincent. “I found an upgrade.”
Before Vincent stitched me again I had him look at Boyd’s head. He said the boy would be fine without stitches, that head wounds just bleed a lot and look worse than they are. I got the sense Boyd didn’t like hearing that. Made him seem like a pussy for making more of it than it was, and the way Vincent looked at him and Tag, pussies is probably exactly what he was thinking. To him, everything was better the way it was, including the men.
While Vincent went to work, in between grimaces of pain, I asked the boys a few questions.
“So where was the next stop if he hadn’t been there? And is he likely to go there now?”
They shared a look. Tag said, “Saint Angelo Social Club.”
Boyd added, “It’s an old school place. Lots of deals get made there. You gotta be a member.”
Vincent knew the joint. “Bobby Darin played there once. And Lou Monte. Now all they have is a jukebox. Nothing changes for the better, I tell you.”
“So I couldn’t get in?” I asked.
Tag chuckled, looked at the sorry state of me. “Uh, no. Not even on a good night.”
“Hey, they’re open for business, there’s a way in,” I said.
My two cousins shared a look filled with apprehension, and a little fear. I let them off the hook.
“You’re not coming with me, boys.”
They both exhaled, but didn’t look necessarily calm yet. “You can’t go in there by yourself,” Tag said.
“That sounds like a dare.” My bravado was undercut by my mewling whimper as Vincent dug the needle into my side again. “I just need to go look around and make a plan. It’s a scout, and a one man team can make much easier work of that than three.”
I eyed the gun on the counter next to Vincent and knew that if I had an opportunity, I would make the hit. But not without an exit strategy and not without knowing I had a clean shot on Fazzio that would put him down and end this for good. Since I started working with Bricks she’d taught me a lot about reducing risk in our work. Granted, I tended to be a bull in a china shop at times. But she taught me the value of good planning, good recon, good intel. She taught me not to let emotions rule the day. In this situation, that was hard. But I knew revenge could get your finger to pull a trigger, but it couldn’t get you out of the room after it was done. Or out of the Saint Angelo Social Club in this case.
I thanked Vincent again and promised to take care of him financially when all this was over.
“No, no, no. You get rid of Fazzio and that’s payment enough for me.”
“But a man with your skills should be compensated,” I said and I pointed at the rate sheet on the wall. It was yellowed and the prices seemed out of date by a decade, but they listed his services for hemming, altering, tailoring. Stitching knife wounds wasn’t on the list, but we’d work out a fair deal.
I got the address to the club from Tag and Boyd and sent them on home to wait for me.
“If I’m not back by morning, I want you to find my partner, Bricks, down in the city. Ask around. She’ll turn up. Tell her what happened. Tell her about Fazzio. She’ll know what to do.”
I felt like I’d just dictated my last will and testament.
“You sure, Cam?” Tag asked. “We could go with you and wait in the car.”
“A car sitting idle with two mugs like you sitting doing nothing but watching the front of the club? They’d clock you faster than a whore spots an out-of-town businessman. No, I got this.” I stuffed Charlie’s gun back in my waistband and went outside to catch a cab.
The ride was short and my side ached with a dull heat. I mean it was actually warm if I held my hand over it. Chances were good I was doing more harm to myself and I’d probably end up dropping dead a minute after I got Fazzio, but revenge will make you do funny things.
When I stood up out of the cab, my knife wound screamed at me. My stitched-up arm didn’t feel too hot either. Sitting still in the back of the cab let everything settle and now I was twisting my body to stand, rubbing the loose flaps of skin against each other, pulling wounds open when they just wanted me to shut up, sit still and let them heal.
The Saint Angelo was a tiny place with a red door it’s only marking. A bouncer in a black suit jacket over a tight black T-shirt stood out front with one ass cheek on a stool. He watched the street, bored, and made a point of not looking at me when I got out of the cab a half block away.
I didn’t even pass in front of the club. If there was any way in at all, the front door was last on the list. I found the alley running behind the club and ducked into it.
The alley smelled like the inside of my head felt. Rancid and neglected. Finding the back door to the club was easy since they kept the red door motif. I was making my way past in as casual a manner as you can manage while sneaking through an alley, when an engine roar jerked my head up and away from the red door. There was a truck angling down the alley, the driver working hard not to scrape his fenders on the brick walls of the passway.
I pressed my body against a wall and watched him make tentative jerks forward until the cab of his truck was past the danger zone. The side of the truck came into view and it was a beer delivery vehicle. Mastro’s Distribution was printed on the side.
With a hiss of brakes the driver shut off the truck and the alley went quiet again except for the scurrying rats whose evening had been disturbed by the fat diesel engine. The driver pulled on a hat with his company logo and he was fighting with a jacket, complete with his name—James—stitched over his heart. He couldn’t get his arm through the right sleeve since it was twisted back in on itself. He seemed frazzled.
“Hey,” I said.
“Not now, pal. I’m late as shit.” He must have thought I was a bum looking for spare change. I was looking for something all right, and he had it. What he had was my opportunity.
He moved his clipboard to his mouth where he gripped it between his teeth so he could really work on that sleeve. That’s when I clocked him with the butt of the gun. He grunted, spit out the clipboard, and fell forward. I hit him again on the way down.
He wasn’t out, but he was stunned. Enough so that when he hit the scum-slick alley asphalt, he didn’t put up a hand to protect himself. He hit with his chin first, teeth second and nose third. A triple play. He let out a long slow groan like he’d sprung a leak, and maybe he had.
I, on the other hand, make a sucking sound between my teeth. The swing of my arm threatened to undo all of Vincent’s stitches in my side. I had to take a moment to hold my wound, make sure it wasn’t bleeding again, and prep my body for more movement.
I also knew I had to work fast. I jerked his hat off first, put it on my head, then removed his jacket. The one arm was still empty which made it easier. I picked up the clipboard and went to knock on the red door.
Keeping my head down and trying to sound as Boston as I could, I shouted, “Delivery,” and hoped this wasn’t as bad of an idea as I thought.
22
BRICKS
Max DaCosta approached me, walking in that measured but very efficient way of his. He was immaculately attired, as per usual, looking every bit the regal consigliere that he was. His gaze took me in, not smiling, not frowning, just impassive. I looked into his intelligent eyes, but they revealed nothing. Being a philosophy major, I’d always pegged DaCosta as a Marcus Aurelius fan. Nothing had changed since I saw him last to amend my opinion, although I thought he did look a little older. I guess that happens to us all, but I’d seen DaCosta less than a year ago. His appearance gave the impression it had been more like ten.
“Paula Brickey,” he said. “I am surprised to see you.”
“You don’t look surprised.”
A trace of a smile twitched on his lips. “I’m not, actually. More disappointed, I suppose. I thought you had better sense.”
“I had better sense? What about you?”
He cocked his head slightly. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean.”
I gaped at him. “You’re fucking kidding me.”
“I’m not, I assure you. Please explain yourself.”
I glanced up toward Vito, then back to DaCosta. “Maybe your ape could put away his toy first? It’s a little hard to talk with that thing hovering over me.”
Vito bristled, but when DaCosta gave him a nod, he stepped away, out of my line of sight. It was a small victory, but it felt good.
I tugged at the bindings on my wrists. “And these?”
He considered, then said, “Those remain in place for the time being.”
“Come on. There’s two of you, and I’m unarmed.”
“Even so.”
“It hurts,” I said.
The twitch of a smile returned. “Paula, I am well aware of your many talents. Even wounded and outnumbered, you are dangerous.”
A tiny, strange burst of pride went through me. I almost said thank you. How’s that for deranged?
“One does not dare even the captive viper to strike, no matter the advantage,” DaCosta continued. He considered me for another moment, then added, “Especially when one has not decided what to do with the viper he’s captured.”
“Technically, Vito Troglodyte over there caught me,” I said. “But I see your point.”
DaCosta found a chair and slid it across the floor to sit opposite me, stopping just outside of kicking range. He sat down, and crossed his legs European style. “So tell me, Paula. After everything that has happened, why did you come into a place that you knew was family owned?”
I could have answered him directly. I could have made this a thirty second conversation, but I needed time. Time to beat this situation. Whether I talked my way out or fought my way out, I need that time.
So I answered, “The pool hall isn’t the only place I went.”
“No?”
“No. I stopped by Albertini’s barber shop earlier.”
“Oh? I hadn’t heard.”
“You must be slipping.”
He smiled indulgently. “Perhaps. But that establishment is no longer a business associated with the family.”
“I figured that out. That’s why I came to DeSasso’s.”
DaCosta’s smile faded. “The Racks 11 is under new ownership now.”
I snorted sarcastically. The action made my head sing with pain. “Oh, believe me, I know.”
“So my question remains. Why, after all this time, when there’d been no contact from the family, would you suddenly elect to march into a family owned establishment? To what end?”
I flexed the fingers in both of my hands. The feeling was nearly gone in them. DaCosta’s gaze dropped to what I was doing, and he frowned slightly. He turned to Vito. “Has she been searched?”
Vito chuckled lasciviously. “Oh, yeah. I searched her real good. She ain’t got nothing on her that God didn’t put there.”
“Then cut her free,” DaCosta said. “But stand behind her.”
I smiled at him. “Not so afraid of the viper now?”
He shrugged slightly. “A calculated risk, born of human kindness. I’ve always liked you, Paula. And your father. You know that.”
Vito cut through my bindings roughly. I shook out my hands and rubbed my wrists to get the feeling to return. The blood rushed back into my hands immediately, and they exploded into painful prickles. Still, it was better than being tied up.
I felt, rather than saw, the looming presence of Vito behind me. I tried to ignore him, focusing on DaCosta. “You keep talking about family, Max. Family establishment, the family, all of that. But what family do you mean? Not the Giordano family, that’s for sure. You jumped ship from them.”
DaCosta didn’t react. He merely nodded slightly, and said, “A sinking ship, yes. I made a business decision, and it was clearly the correct one.”
“Not very loyal, though, was it?”
“Loyalty, like all things, lies on a spectrum.”
“How very relative of you. But kinda convenient.”
DaCosta didn’t reply right away. He simply watched me for a full minute, his implacable gaze seeming to invade my own thoughts. Going up against Vito, I’d been sure who was the smarter of us. Going up against DaCosta, it was a toss-up. Add to the fact I was in his place, with his goon standing behind me, eager to get busy with his knife, and it was clear: Advantage DaCosta.
But I was stalling like a motherfucker. There was that.
When he spoke again, he took away my only advantage. “Paula, let’s not rehash old times. Let them lie. Instead, let’s get to the heart of the matter. Why did you come to the pool hall today?”
“Why did you send Abe Fortunato to kill me?” I countered.
Genuine confusion flickered in his eyes. “Fortunato?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know his name,” I said.
“I know who he is. But I haven’t seen him since I changed positions.”
“Changed positions? That’s a clever euphemism, Max.”
“It’s an accurate statement. But let’s stay focused, shall we? Why do you think I sent Fortunato?”
