The syndicate, p.3
The Syndicate, page 3
“You know,” Kastel said to Craine, grinning, “I’ve heard so much about you it’s almost like we know each other.”
“I wish I could say the same, Mr. Kastel. Would you care to tell me about yourself? And what brings you here?”
“I’m not from California. Although I came out here before the war.” Craine noticed him touch his scars. “Worked for a man named Carell—you remember him? Chicago fella, tried to make it out in Hollywood. You recollect?”
Yes, Craine recollected. Carell had been a Chicago mobster working out of Los Angeles. He’d almost killed Craine. Almost killed Michael, too. Inwardly Craine had known all along that this had something to do with his old life in Los Angeles. It had cast a long shadow.
“Briefly,” Craine said. “We met briefly before the war.”
“Downplaying it. I heard you practically brought down the entire Chicago racket. Can’t say you look like some big shot Hollywood detective now.”
“As I said, it was a long time ago.” Craine tried his best to hide his apprehension. “What is it you want, Mr. Kastel?”
Kastel put his coffee down and pushed it away. At last he stopped smiling. “My employer. He wants to meet you.”
“Who is your employer?”
“That’s not important. What is important, however, is that he asked me to come here and invite you to meet him as soon as possible.”
Craine cast a glance at Michael. A flicker of concern crossed both their faces.
“I politely decline.”
“It’s not polite to decline an invitation.”
“Why does he want to meet me?”
Kastel suddenly took his hands off the table. One hand went into his jacket pocket. It seemed to hover for a long time. Craine wondered if he was going to reach for a pistol but instead he brought out a pack of cigarettes.
“Smoke?”
Craine shook his head a small fraction. Kastel lit a cigarette and drew a deep lungful. “Didn’t smoke for years. Service that got me hooked. Pack a day.”
He pushed smoke out of the side of his mouth and leaned forward a little. “He wants to meet the famous Jonathan Craine. Or is it infamous? I always forget the difference.”
“No, thank you. You can tell me who he is but my answer will be the same. I need to be here. With my son.”
From the doorway, the thickset man took a step forward and for a second Craine thought he was going to hit him.
Kastel raised a hand. “Easy, Abe. Let’s give Mr. Craine here a moment to reconsider. Maybe he needs to check his diary. After all, we came all this way.”
The simian stopped still. Kastel maintained his steady smile but Craine could sense he was growing agitated.
“You tell your employer that I thank him for his invitation,” Craine said, gripping the edge of the table and pushing himself up. “But I can’t leave my farm or my son. Now, I’ll ask you kindly to leave.”
“We can’t take off in the dark.”
“Then you gentlemen are more than welcome to stay the night,” he said tonelessly. “You can sleep in the bunkhouse across the way. Gets cold at night. We have blankets and cots for itinerant workers. But you’ll leave as soon as it’s light.”
Kastel nodded. After a moment, he picked up his hat. He was still smiling but Craine could feel him stiffen in the low light.
“Very well. You’re putting me in a bind, Mr. Craine. I can’t pretend otherwise. My employer will be disappointed to miss you.”
The wide man—Abe—left first. At the door Kastel said, “Thanks for the coffee. No doubt we’ll see each other in the morning.”
And then he walked out into the night.
Kastel’s men went into the barn as instructed. It didn’t have electricity, but Craine put out kerosene lamps and what blankets they could spare. He waited until he was sure the men were in the bunkhouse before bolting the front and back doors from the inside and closing the shutters on all the downstairs windows.
When the house was locked up and the downstairs lights were off, Craine went to see Michael in his room.
He tapped, then opened the door an inch. Michael was reading in bed. “Can I come in?”
“I’m reading.”
He was a quiet boy but he had his mother’s temper. Craine thought about that. No, that’s not fair. He is the best of his mother and all that is salvageable from me.
“Wanted to check you were okay.”
“I’m fine.”
Craine stepped in with a tray. Michael’s bedroom overlooked the rear of the house. You could see Lake Mono on a clear day.
“Brought you some ice water.”
A peace offering. A welcome one in this heat. Michael took the pitcher and glass off the tray and pulled his legs up so Craine could sit at the end of the bed.
Michael’s T-shirt clung to his skin in faint patches. He was becoming a man now. He was as tall as Craine was, skinny but with a breadth that warned he’d fill out. He imagined Michael in uniform. Holding his rifle. That boy would die for people he’d never met. He’d have no hesitation, he knew that. Could Craine say the same? Was there any cause he believed in enough to really die for?
None came to mind.
“Who were those men?” Michael asked.
“I don’t know. They’ll leave in the morning. Can’t expect them to take off in that thing when it’s dark. Besides, we’re safe in here.”
It was true. The house was a fortress. There was no way anyone was breaking in without him knowing it.
“What do you think they wanted?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are they dangerous?”
He didn’t want to answer that. Instead he said, “If they wanted to cause us harm they would have done it by now.”
Uppermost in his mind was figuring out who sent them. A part of him was curious, if not plain eager, to know what they wanted with him.
“What if they come back?”
“Then I’ll tell them again.”
“So you’re not going with them?”
“No.”
Michael nodded and said tentatively, “I was supposed to go over to the Howleys’ tonight, remember?”
Craine could read between the lines. He wanted to meet up with that girl Penny.
“I think it’s best if we stay here.”
“But it’s not late. I’ll be back in an hour.”
Craine glanced to the window. He didn’t want to scare the boy but he couldn’t let him leave the house. Reflecting on their argument earlier, he chose his words carefully. “Please. Stay here.”
“You said they’re not dangerous—”
“Please, Michael. Not tonight. I mean it. I don’t want us taking any chances. They’ll be gone in the morning.”
Michael didn’t answer, but Craine could tell he was frustrated. Changing the subject, he said, “This army thing. You want to talk about it?”
Michael shrugged and pulled a face. “You never want to talk. You never want to discuss. You only want to tell me what to do.”
Craine’s own father had died when he was young and sometimes he wished he could remember more about him. About what kind of father he was. He wondered if most men asked their fathers for advice on raising sons. Or whether that mystery was left to each alone.
“You have to understand, if something were to happen—” His explanation left his tongue stillborn. “Remember that after your mother—”
He faltered. He struggled to draw upon his emotions. They were rarely to hand when he needed them.
Craine stood up. “We can talk in the morning.”
He wanted to say that he couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. To tell him how proud he was of the person he’d become. How proud his mother would have been.
But he didn’t. He’d never been able to express himself.
He left the room and shut the door.
The bedroom shutters were closed and the room was black. Years ago, Craine had been plagued by insomnia. But living out here, most nights he slept so deeply it was as if he would never wake.
Tonight was the exception. He knew instinctively that something wasn’t right. That this exchange with Kastel wasn’t over. Whoever they were, these men would likely be back in the morning and he’d have to negotiate with them a second time; they seemed acutely keen to return to wherever they came from with him in tow.
He thought of what Kastel had said about the Chicago Outfit. Those men he had killed.
Craine had never really got over what happened in ’39. He had spent years untangling his thoughts about it. But he couldn’t really remove himself from his acts, despite trying. When he walked around his farm the shadows of dead men followed him, waiting for night to come so they could whisper in his dreams.
And when he drifted to sleep now, they were here with him. The men he’d shot, staring up from the floor. Saying the same thing they always said: “Why did you kill me?”, and Craine was clumsily explaining to them why it was necessary. Why he had to do it to protect himself. To protect his son.
The sound of the horses brought him to his senses. It didn’t sound like neighing, more like a child’s scream. For a moment he thought he was still dreaming.
He got out of bed and walked dazed to the window, brushing at his eyes. There was a tungsten glow seeping between the shutter slats. He couldn’t even remember picking up the shotgun but it was in his hands and he was moving back to the bedroom door to check no one was in the house.
“Michael? Michael, wake up.”
Craine went out into the hallway and found the darkness strangely comforting. Michael’s room was barely five yards away, the bedroom door closed.
“Michael, you need to wake up.”
No reply. Craine’s hackles rose; he took one deep breath, then pushed the door open with the shotgun in his shoulder.
Michael’s bed was empty. The sound of the horses was louder and there was smoke coming in from outside.
The window was open.
Craine came tumbling down the porch and could already see that his barns were ablaze. There was a smell of meat and burning hair and one of his horses came galloping past with its mane on fire. Another horse was rearing up, foaming at the mouth.
Ahead of him, Kastel’s men held flashlights and burning torches made from cheap timber. They were holding their flames in the air like a lynch mob. Craine saw them shooting the horses as they passed; one of the mares fell to the floor, her neck in seizure, her hooves kicking up dust. The squeal she made unnerved him. Then the man Abe came forward and shot her twice in the head and she stopped.
Kastel was behind them. He had Michael, his hands tied in front of him. It was warm this close to the flames but Michael was shivering. His face was bloodied where he’d been struck across the cheek and one eye was swollen shut.
Craine began running toward Kastel but two other men put themselves in his path. He swung for the first man with the butt of his shotgun but although he made contact, the weight of the Remington knocked him off balance. It was enough to give the second man an opportunity to throw him to the floor and wrestle the shotgun out of his hands.
Craine tried to pull himself to his feet but the two men held him down. He began lashing out, but a series of punches to the back of the head left him dizzy. A kick to the jugular was enough to keep him still.
Craine drew breath and then more breath and then more. But he couldn’t speak. His windpipe felt like it was choking him from the inside.
He heard Michael whimpering. “I’m sorry,” his son kept saying. “I’m so sorry, Pa.”
As if in response, Kastel kicked at the back of Michael’s legs and the boy dropped and landed on his knees.
“Wait—”
But Kastel was already grabbing Michael by the hair. He yanked his head back with a twist of his arm and held a knife below Michael’s throat.
Craine’s heart began pounding so hard he could feel his whole chest move. “Please,” he said, horrified, words rushing out in no order. “Don’t do this—no, no. Please. Don’t hurt him.”
Kastel’s eyes widened but there was no emotion in his voice. “This is you, Craine. You did this.”
Craine tried to find Michael’s face in the flickering flames and saw the terror filling his eyes. The boy was convulsing now, shaking hard enough Craine thought he might cut his own throat against the blade.
The large man, Abe, watched on, uneasy. Like he was trying to see how this might play out.
Craine couldn’t swallow. He tried to form words. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just let him go.”
“It’s too late for that,” Kastel said as if speaking reasonably. “You weren’t polite. I don’t like that.”
The Barlow knife was compact and short, meant for concealment, not utility. He pulled it closer to Michael’s neck.
Craine looked at the knife and then at his son. There was nothing he could do now.
“Please,” he managed. “I’ll do anything.”
Abe followed this exchange but didn’t react. Craine looked at him pleadingly to help, but he did nothing.
“Like I said,” Kastel smiled. “It’s all too late for that now.”
Kastel took the blade away from Michael’s neck and moved it toward his wrists. For a second Craine thought he was going to cut the rope binds but instead Kastel grabbed at his fingers.
“No, don’t—please, don’t.” Craine started to wriggle but the two men on top of him held him down harder, aware of what was about to come.
Craine watched helplessly as Michael’s body shuddered with the pain of the blade cutting through flesh and bone. First he heard his son scream and then he saw Michael’s hand erupt. Blood shot outward and Kastel threw two small finger ends into the dust.
Craine roared. Kastel stood upright, grinning. He used his boot to push the boy sideways. Michael slumped into his own gore.
“It’s done,” he said, wiping the sweat from his face.
Anger swelled in Craine’s chest, filling him until he was bursting with it. He threw his head upward and his skull cracked into the nose of the younger man holding him. There was a howl and Craine felt the grip around his arms relax.
He was up on his feet now and running for them, paying no attention to the pain.
Kastel, seemingly aware that Craine was only a few yards away, turned his knife in his direction.
Craine half-expected to feel a bullet knock him off his feet but it was Abe who stopped him. Stepping into his way, the large man brought a piece of timber into Craine’s stomach. The air rushed out of him.
Craine tried to keep moving but stumbled to the floor. Before he could move, Abe was on top of him. In another swift movement he had one arm around his neck, the other pinning his arms back. Craine tried again to wrench himself free but the large man was too strong. He couldn’t even draw a breath. “Relax. For your own sake, relax,” the big man whispered into his ear. “If you don’t, he’ll kill you.”
Michael was on the ground, clasping his bloody hand, his teeth gritted, his screams dissolving into tears.
Craine froze. He had stopped moving, all resolve gone. He lay there with Abe restraining him. The barns were burning. Even with the blood swirling in his ears he could hear the horses braying all around him. There was nothing to do but stare straight ahead at Michael, ten yards away, crying and clutching his mutilated fingers.
There was violence in his life again. And there would only be more.
MONDAY
Chapter 3
The plane took off at first light.
Craine left his distraught son cradling his bloodied hand. Three of Kastel’s men were left behind, the barns still ablaze and smoke filling the early-morning sky.
Craine massaged his temples with his fingertips. His eyes were puffy and tender to the touch. The adrenaline began to leave his body and his head started throbbing. He couldn’t believe what had happened. What they’d done to his son.
He’d been frantically trying to think who had sent these men but deep down he knew. Before the war, he’d uncovered a Hollywood extortion ring that led all the way back to Chicago. There were arrests and federal indictments; there was a grand jury and newspaper headlines; many people had died along the way. A part of him had always believed his past would catch up with him.
Kastel was with the pilot in the cockpit. Abe was sitting opposite him, strapped into a narrow bench that ran the length of the plane. He wasn’t as tall as Craine, but there was a mountain of meat under his coat. He carried himself like a dockworker or a logger.
“Where are we going?” Craine asked him. He had to shout over the engine. They’d already been flying for an hour. New York wasn’t possible in a plane this small. And although he’d assumed they’d be flying to Los Angeles, after they’d taken off they’d passed Mono Lake to their right, which meant that they were flying southeast into Nevada.
“You’re meeting a senior business partner in our organization.”
Craine’s suspicions were correct. Whoever it was that wanted to meet him, they wanted retribution. “Who?” he asked.
“You’ll see soon enough. Won’t be long now.” Abe’s eyes were dull in this light. They gave nothing away. He handed Craine a flask. “Won’t help the headache, but it’s all I got.”
It was a small gesture but Craine took it. He winced as it burned his bleeding gums.
The large man stirred. He gave Craine a steady look, curious if not sympathetic. He must have been reading Craine’s thoughts because he said, “I told them to take your boy to the doctor.”
“Nearest doctor is a two-hour drive,” Craine said.
Abe glanced sideways to be sure he couldn’t be heard. “If they stem the bleeding he’ll be alright.” He held up a club-like fist and stuck out the two little fingers. “It was the top joint.” He looked toward the cockpit. “Finger-shortening, he calls it. Told me the Japs did it in the war.”
Their conversation was disturbed by the fuselage shaking. The plane yawed, tilting sideways as it began its descent through the clouds. A thin haze replaced the horizon until Craine looked down to see the faint shades of desert and realized they were flying over Death Valley.
