The syndicate, p.16
The Syndicate, page 16
Craine clarified: “When you search for something, you do it systematically. You move things to one side, go through them, then move on. This seems amateurish. Unnecessarily so. If they’d have wanted accounts they would have taken all of them. Why throw the files everywhere?”
Their conversation was interrupted by a hum from outside. Mechanical movement.
“What’s that?”
They followed the night guard back through the office to the fourth-floor landing, where the wall lights gave them an oblique view of the central atrium.
There was a clank and a whir. The sound of oiled metal moving, and then they could hear the elevator sheave on the top floor begin turning. Craine squinted and saw the counterweight drop and one of the metal birdcages on the ground floor begin to rise.
Someone was coming up.
The three of them stood in silence at the balustrades, staring into the darkness. The elevator was maybe fifty feet away.
Second floor. Third.
The cage elevator stopped on the fourth floor, exactly opposite. It was too dark to see through the metal grilles and the door wasn’t visible from this side. Was it empty?
There was an echo from somewhere. It had a metallic edge to it.
Abe looked to Craine. “Is it police?”
“No.” Police announce themselves. This wasn’t the L.A.P.D.
They stood silent and motionless, each waiting for the other to move. In the end it was the night guard who moved first, pointing his flashlight in the elevator’s direction.
“Who’s there?” he said.
“Lower the flashlight,” Abe said.
“He’s right. Put it down.” Craine put a hand on his arm but the old man pulled it away.
“I got a right to do what I want. I’m the night guard,” he said, waving his flashlight. He had his free hand on his gun belt, groping at the butt of a revolver that looked like it hadn’t been used in twenty years.
“Who’s there?” he said again, but as he did so two of his teeth seemed to fall out of his mouth with most of the contents of his head. Then the bullet report came to them like a match strike a split second after.
The building echoed. The old man fell sideways, landing on the tiles with a heavy thud. There was a moment of confusion, as if neither of them were exactly sure what had happened, and then Craine and Abe dropped to the floor.
More bullets followed, separating the air. Office windows behind them cracked, then blew inward. Craine swore but it came out as a rush of loose vowels. This is it, he said to himself.
Craine looked to Abe and saw his mouth was moving. He was trying to tell him something but Craine couldn’t hear it over the blood throbbing in his ears.
It took a long time for his adrenaline to wipe away the shock and give his body what it needed, and then everything came back in a sudden surge, bringing his senses alive.
“I said, are you hit?” Abe was shouting. He had the Savage in his hand. He cocked it and pulled the hammer back.
Craine’s face was warm. There was blood on his face but it wasn’t his. He wiped his cheeks with his sleeve.
“I’m okay,” he may or may not have said out loud.
Abe didn’t reply. He was scanning the atrium for any sign of movement.
Craine could see the night guard lying on the floor, emitting a fleshy moan. He tried to crawl over to him but there was blood everywhere and his elbows and feet slid uselessly on the tiles. When he finally reached him he could see the old man’s chest was rising and falling, blood spurting out with each gurgled breath. He was groping at life.
Craine put his hands round the night guard’s throat and felt the artery pumping blood through his fingers. In the darkness it felt like warm water spraying from a faucet leak.
“Help me . . .” the man was gasping. “I’m dying, I’m dying, I’m dying.” And then with a choked whimper, “I’m sorry, Marie. I’m so sorry . . . I don’t want to die.”
Craine tried to locate the burst artery. Found it. Pinched his fingers hard, trying to stem the blood flow, but by now the old man had stopped talking.
Another shot came and he recoiled, the man’s blood lacing across his face as his fingers loosened. Craine tried to concentrate, knowing that this man would die in the next thirty seconds if he didn’t stop the bleeding.
Abe was in a crouch now; he cut along the edge of the balcony and scrutinized the empty blackness with his pistol. Straight-backed, assured, the pistol seemingly homing in on danger. He was acting unthinking.
He glanced toward Craine. “He’s over there. Do you see him?”
Craine picked up the direction in his eyes. He wanted to stand but his knees were shaking too hard. He kept his hand on the old man’s neck as he tried to look for the shooter. His eyes darted in different directions; he saw movement where there wasn’t any.
A loud bang and the building lit up. Craine’s position suddenly felt very exposed. Bullets splashed across the darkness, two or three sparking off the scrollwork a few inches away from Abe.
“Get the gun,” Abe shouted, firing back with remove. “Get the guard’s gun.”
With one hand tight around the old man’s neck, Craine unholstered his snub-nosed revolver. The grip was warm and wet with blood. Turning, he used his thumb to pull the hammer back and pointed it toward the darkness.
Abe was scanning the atrium. From his vantage point he couldn’t get a shot. He shifted sideways and fired. Sparks came off the railings. He fired again. The noise was disorienting, like you couldn’t tell where the fire was going to or coming from. But in the strobe light, Craine saw a silhouette moving down the balcony to the staircase.
“He’s on the third floor,” Craine said. He straightened the night guard’s pistol and aimed at the moving figure.
“If you see him, shoot, goddamit,” Abe shouted.
Craine pressed his forefinger against the trigger but didn’t fire. He felt a cold chill like he’d entered a locker plant.
“I can’t see him,” he said half-convincingly.
A second later and the gunman disappeared, swallowed by the darkness. There one moment, gone the next.
Craine dropped the revolver and listened for the night guard’s breath. Air was bubbling out of him but otherwise he was silent. From downstairs there was the sound of footsteps echoing against the tiles as the shooter made his way to the ground floor. The firing had stopped.
Seconds passed. Then minutes. They remained stock-still in the darkness, ears pricked for sounds of movement.
Nothing.
Abe cautiously leaned over the balustrade and stared up and down the staircase. After what seemed like an age, he came over in a crouch. “He’s gone.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. But we have to go,” he said, composed but firm. “Police will be here any minute. Grab as many files as you can and let’s get out of here.”
Craine looked to the night guard. His remaining teeth were chattering together like pebbles. His windpipe sounded like a paper bag blowing in the wind.
Craine gave Abe a defiant look. “He’s still breathing.”
“He won’t be much longer.”
An understatement. In the half-light, Craine could see the old man’s eyes had turned up, already clouding over. He was in the final death throes.
“We can’t leave him here,” Craine said, drawing in short, shocked breaths. “He’s dying.”
Abe grabbed him by his jacket. Craine went to protest but he lacked the strength to argue with him. The old man’s body had stopped moving. His heart was no longer pumping and what blood there was, was already cooling. Craine felt something in him sink.
Abe looked at the night guard, then at Craine. “He’s dead,” he said.
Chapter 21
Craine drove them back to the hotel, Abe in the passenger seat, reloading his Savage pistol in case they were followed.
It had been years since Craine had driven through L.A., but he pushed through the gears as fast as he could, trying to remember the quickest route back to Beverly Hills. It was after eleven now and the roads were empty, nothing to disturb them on their way but potholes chafing against the tires.
“He was definitely dead, wasn’t he?” Craine asked, his mind questioning itself.
“He was dead.”
The answer didn’t satisfy him. He needed to debate it. “We should have waited. Called an ambulance.”
“For what, Craine?” Abe said a little testily. “He was dead, I told you. No good would have come from waiting around for the police to arrest us.”
Craine kept driving but it wasn’t until they reached West Hollywood that he noticed Abe was clutching his arm.
“What is it?”
Abe gritted his teeth. “Nothing.”
Craine saw something glisten on Abe’s shirt. Blood. “You’re shot? Jesus.”
“Caught my shoulder. I didn’t even notice at first.”
Abe brought his hand out and Craine could see it was slick with blood.
“We have to get you to a hospital.”
“No hospitals.” Abe was adamant. “Police will be all over the building by now. They’ll have an A.P.B. out within the hour.”
“You need a doctor.”
The big man winced with the pain. “No. Get me back to the hotel. We’ll take care of it. Dragna will have somebody.”
“Keep pressing on it.” Abe looked at him like Craine was speaking the obvious. Clearly this wasn’t the first time this had happened. “What was that back there? Felt like an ambush.”
“I think whoever ransacked the place saw us go in.”
“Which means they want to stop us from piecing together their motive. Whoever killed Siegel didn’t do it for personal reasons. Lansky’s wrong. You don’t sneak up through someone’s garden with a rifle unless it’s an assassination. Now whoever did it wants to make sure we don’t find out why.”
But Abe wasn’t listening. He took a deep breath and tilted his head back like he was falling asleep.
Craine was starting to worry he’d slipped unconscious when Abe muttered, “You could have fired back.”
“What?”
“I saw you. You had a moment you could have fired but you didn’t.”
Craine thought about answering but Abe had already turned his head away. Besides, a part of him knew Abe was right. Craine had got buck fever when it mattered most. But it wasn’t the fear of dying that had stopped him. It was the fear of killing.
There was some kind of party going on at the hotel; press hounds were huddled outside taking photographs of young ingénues in cocktail dresses and men in tuxedos as they slid into limousines and headed home. They were probably in their early twenties but looked like children playing grown-ups to Craine—middle age did that to you.
The valet didn’t ask questions when they pulled up at the front steps, but Craine could see him notice his shirt was caked in blood when he opened the driver’s door. Abe had his rain jacket draped over his shoulders, one arm pressing firmly into his shoulder underneath. His face was pale and clammy and the valet only had to take one good look at the passenger seat to notice the bloodstains on the upholstery. That was the thing about these types of hotels. You paid extra for discretion.
They entered the hotel’s circular lobby and walked straight past reception to the elevators. The gala was in the Rodeo Ballroom but guests were cavorting in the lobby or running out toward the swimming pool. Flashbulbs popped as photographs were taken of different groups of celebrities. As they weaved through the party, Craine spotted comedians Al Jolson and Jack Benny cracking jokes, but they were too soaked with champagne to notice the two men dripping blood across the marble floor.
A waiter was wheeling a drinks trolley past them and Craine dipped his hand into the ice bucket, wiping the worst of the blood off his face. The cold water kept him alert.
Abe was becoming unsteady on his feet and Craine had to prop him up by the elbow. The weight of the man almost made him buckle.
As they reached the elevators, a woman wearing mink and diamonds walked past and frowned at them but she was looking too tipsy to care much.
Craine summoned the elevator and watched as the brass arrow above the doors crawled around the dial. Fifth floor. Fourth. Somewhere behind them a band was playing swing tunes. There was something faintly ridiculous about the two of them waiting here casually with blood at their feet as the tuxedoed throng around them whistled and cheered.
The elevator opened and Robert Mitchum and Henry Fonda stepped out. If they recognized Craine, they pretended not to. Craine managed to get Abe inside and pressed the button to their floor repeatedly until the door began to close.
A young couple came toward them, kissing and laughing, the elevator the only thing between them and their bedroom. The man grabbed the elevator door before it shut but as he did so he noticed blood on Craine’s shirt and looked at him. The girl caught sight of Abe slumped inside the elevator and let out a tiny shriek.
“He’s had a few too many,” Craine said. “Best you get the next one.”
There was a maid’s trolley parked in the corridor on their floor and Craine grabbed several white towels before dragging Abe into their suite.
The big man practically keeled over as soon as they entered and Craine had to half-drag him across the tiles to his bathroom.
Inside, Craine lowered him onto the floor and propped him up against the bath. He took off Abe’s jacket so he could see the full extent of the bleeding. The whole left-hand side of his shirt was shiny with blood.
Abe’s breath had become raspy and uneven. Craine loosened his shoulder holster to help him breathe and the Savage clattered onto the bathroom floor.
There was a moment then that he realized this man was at his mercy. He could leave Abe here to die. Or grab the gun and shoot him. Craine had every motivation to hate this man, and yet for whatever reason he felt a sort of kinship with Abe. Or maybe he simply knew he needed his help if he was ever going to save Michael.
Craine went to pick up the Savage and then felt Abe’s hand grab his wrist. He fixed Craine in a stare but his eyes were unfocused. Maybe he trusted Craine wouldn’t kill him or maybe he no longer cared, but they both remained completely still before Abe’s hand went slack.
“Call Harvey,” Abe muttered. “He can send somebody.”
“How do I get to him?”
But Abe’s eyes were closed now. He started mumbling, “Is Joseph here? Where’s Joseph? Did his ship leave already?”
Craine realized he was talking about his son. He wasn’t sure what to say.
“Abe,” he said softly, “I need you to tell me how to contact Harvey.”
Abe was fast losing consciousness. Craine slapped him.
“Abe,” he said. “Wake up. Abe.”
Abe didn’t respond, and Craine started to panic. “Abe,” he said. “Tell me how to contact Harvey. Wake up, I need to know how to contact Harvey.”
Craine’s chest fluttered. He slapped Abe hard across the face again. When the big man didn’t react, he slapped him twice more, harder now.
“Abe!”
Abe’s eyes opened, startled.
“What? Jesus,” he slurred. It was almost as if he was drunk. “Stop hitting me, Craine. What do you want?”
Harvey Sterling arrived within the hour, by which time Craine had managed to stem the bleeding with towels. The bathroom floor was smeared with great brown arcs where he had made a poor effort to wipe up the blood. It lent a certain absurdity to proceedings.
“What took you so long?” Craine asked when he opened the suite door.
“Relax, Craine. I brought somebody to help.”
Behind Harvey was a man with a medical bag who looked like he’d only recently been woken up.
“This is Dr. Fulton.”
There was something vaguely recognizable about him, but Craine had felt that a lot the past few days.
“Take me to him,” Dr. Fulton said without further introduction.
Craine led both men into the bathroom and Fulton wasted no time in getting to work. Without saying anything, he placed a stethoscope over Abe’s chest and moved it from the heart to the lungs.
“Breathing is shallow,” Fulton said. “But there’s no bruit and no liquid in the lungs.”
Nothing in the way the doctor acted implied this was new to him. From the relaxed fashion Harvey let him go about his work, Craine surmised this wasn’t the first time he’d done this.
“What’s his name?” Fulton asked.
Craine told him, and the doctor clicked his fingers in front of his eyes and tapped his face. “Abe, can you hear me? Abe?”
No reaction. Abe was unconscious.
“Help me take his clothes off.”
Pressure from the towels had helped stem the blood flow, but now the blood had clotted and dried it clung to the fabric of Abe’s clothes like glue. They had to peel his shirt and pants off of him.
Abe’s figure was no less imposing in his underwear. There were small pink and brown scars dotted across his chest like cigar burns; he had a looping knife welt that ran from the bottom of his rib cage to the center of his belly. Craine thought of the brazen way Abe had faced the gunfire tonight; it crossed his mind that Abe was the type of man who might in other circumstances have been a war hero and not a hired killer.
Fulton examined the entire body with his fingers before focusing on the bullet wound itself. It was like a side of raw beef open to the bone.
As the doctor worked, Harvey lit one cigarette from another. His face betrayed nothing. Like this was any other night.
Dr. Fulton took his time, working through a routine, speaking as if an assistant was taking notes: “Looks like a ricochet,” he said. “Single entrance wound to lower deltoid. No damage to underlying structure. Wound is relatively clean, considering. No gunpowder embedded, no damage to anything but tissue immediately surrounding the wound.”
Finally, he addressed the others directly. “Help me move him onto his side.”
They heaved Abe sideways and Fulton examined his shoulder blades.
“Bruising located at the rear of the trapezius muscle but no exit wound. No bone fracture and no interior bleeding either. The bullet avoided major nerves and blood vessels. He’s a lucky man.”
