Blues in the Night (22 page)

‘I got no arrangement with you,' Paulie said. ‘And I don't plan on having any.'

Brox barely moved his eyes, but it was enough of a signal for Gulik to deliver a non-fatal but devastating fist to Paulie's right kidney, sending him to his knees.

Dizzy from the pain, he stared up at the Russian crime boss who was standing within an arm's distance. The cool bastard knew that even if Paulie could take a swing without one of the thugs intervening, he'd be too weak to do anything more than pat him.

‘Let me explain myself, Mister La-ca-ta,' Brox said. ‘I had an arrangement with one of your acquaintances, Mister Daniels. I paid him a great deal of money in return for a certain object. Due to Mister Daniels' untimely death, his obligation to me has transferred to you.'

Paulie didn't really get the drift of what Brox was saying. He was trying to catch his breath, but deep breathing resulted in a knife-like pain so overpowering he was too worried about suffocation for his mind to take in what his ears were hearing.

Brox shook his head and said to Gulik, ‘Did you have to hit him that hard?'

‘I thought I was supposed to,' Gulik said, then seemed to correct himself. ‘I thought he could handle it.'

Annoyed, Brox waved the big man away. He bent over Paulie and placed a thin, pale hand on his shoulder. ‘Can you hear me, sir? Nod, if you can hear me.'

Breathing heavily now, Paulie was thinking that he'd have to see his internist ASAP. Get that creeping Jesus out of bed. Even if he wasn't permanently damaged, he'd be pissing blood for weeks. Blood coming out of his wang, like he was on the rag.
Gee-zus.

‘Nod . . . if . . . you . . . can . . . hear . . . me,' Brox was articulating. In his face.

Paulie nodded.

‘Since Mister Daniels is dead, you have inherited his obligation,' Brox said. ‘We are now partners.'

‘No. I work for . . . Sal Montdrago.'

‘So?' Brox asked. ‘I will . . . how did the
kumovstvo
– the godfather say it? I will make him an arrangement he cannot refuse.'

‘An
offer
,' Paulie said. ‘Not an arrangement. An
offer
.'

‘Whatever.' Brox looked at his watch. A cheap Cartier Panther knock-off, Paulie was not too much in pain to notice. Was that the best the guy could do, a mob chief with a fist-hold on the Russian black market? The prick had no taste. No style.

‘I must leave soon,' Brox said. ‘I can trust you to turn over the coin to our friend Abraham?'

‘I don't have the fucking coin,' Paulie said. ‘What makes you think I do?'

‘My associate Mr Daniels had the coin. You had him killed. Ergo . . .'

‘I didn't have Tiny killed.' Paulie was shouting now, forgetting his pain.

Brox turned to Abe. ‘Did you not assure me this was true?'

‘Hey, look. I was just passing along the word on the street,' Abe said.

Brox frowned. ‘I am faced with a dilemma,' he said. ‘Either you are untrustworthy, Abraham, or Mr Lacotta is lying. I haven't the time to puzzle this out.' He sighed. ‘Find out the answer for me, Gulik. Quickly.'

In less than a second, the big Russian had Paulie lying on the carpet, his giant foot pressing on the struggling man's chest. ‘If he uses his full body weight,' Brox said, ‘he will crush your rib cage, probably sending jagged sections of it into vital organs.'

Paulie had just started to breathe normally. Now fear and the pressure of Gulik's foot was causing him to gasp again.

‘He cannot speak if he cannot breathe, Gulik,' Brox said.

The big man shifted his weight so that his foot barely grazed Paulie's chest.

Paulie responded with a deep intake of breath. He released it and said, in a voice so calm and certain it surprised even him, ‘If I had taken the coin from the fat fuck, don't you think I would have put the formula to use by now?'

Brox barely considered the comment before turning to Abe. ‘What does your
word on the street
have to say about that?'

Abe made a helpless gesture with his hands.

‘Wasting time. It is where you Americans excel. I cannot afford it. And now, neither can you gentlemen. I give you twenty-four hours to find the coin. At midnight tomorrow, if it is not in my hand, I will have this establishment burned to the ground.' He headed for the door. ‘And you both will be used for kindling.'

Abe waited until the Russian trio had left the room, then tried to help Paulie to his feet.

‘Don't touch me, you fucker,' Paulie warned, using Abe's desk to pull himself upright. ‘Putting me on the spot like that. I ought to burn you myself.'

‘I didn't tell Brox anything he hadn't heard,' Abe said. ‘And now I'm in this mess, too.'

‘Boo hoo, prick,' Paulie said. He arched his back and moaned. The kidney pain began again, still strong and deep. ‘Selling me out to that pasty-faced fuck.'

He headed for the door.

‘Wait,' Abe called. ‘What do we do about the coin?'

‘You made the problem,' Paulie said. ‘You solve it.'

‘How?'

‘See what the word is on the street.'

Paulie was moving through the building now, Abe running to keep up with him. ‘What about Brox? He said he'd kill us.'

‘He's gonna have to find me first,' Paulie said.

‘Hold on, for Christ's sake.'

Paulie had never heard Abe whine before. It stopped him. ‘What?'

‘If you didn't kill Tiny, you must have some idea who did. I was thinking maybe it was Mace? Got that temper, you know.'

Paulie frowned. Could Mace have had a meltdown at Tiny's? Cleaned house? Then lied about the Brit gunman?

‘If he killed the fat man, Paulie, you know damn well he's got the coin.'

‘Naw,' Paulie said, shaking his head. ‘Mace is not that guy.'

‘You hesitated,' Abe said. ‘You must have a doubt.'

‘Mace is fucking not that guy,' Paulie said, disgusted with himself for letting Abe see his momentary loss of faith in his friend.

Abe shrugged. ‘Well, somebody shot up that place,' he said, ‘and came away with the prize.'

A new possibility flashed in Paulie's mind. Could Angela have had four men killed for the coin? Hard to believe. And yet, she was there. And who else was left?

He hoped Mace had been able to get a fix on her where–abouts. Then, maybe together they could . . . force her to give up the coin. Not that he'd be turning the coin over to Brox. Screw the Russkie and the boat he sailed in on. The coin was his property.

If only Mace knows where the bitch is.

THIRTY-SEVEN

M
ace stood beside the bed, looking down at Angela as she slept.

The last time he'd experienced the sight of her sleeping in just that same position it had been in a dream.

Was he dreaming now? Maybe.

She stirred, opened her eyes and looked up at him. Smiling. Holding out her arms. He offered no resistance when she drew him back into bed, back into a long kiss, and, eventually, back into another euphoric sexual climax.

They broke apart and he lay on his back, breathing heavily. Dreamily satisfied. But the satisfaction was short-lived. A darkness descended on the room. Suddenly fearful, he looked at her, eager for reassurance.

Angela was facing the open window where a thin curtain fluttered in the morning breeze off the ocean.

He touched her shoulder and she slowly turned toward him. She was wearing a sweet smile even though, like Tiny Daniels' worthless bodyguard Carlos, a bullet had removed her left eye.

He awoke with a start, his body covered in sweat.

‘What?' she asked beside him.

It was still dark. She was frowning, not quite awake and preferring not to be. She opened her eyes and stared at him. ‘What is it?'

When she saw the look on his face, her voice softened. ‘What's the matter?'

‘Just a bad dream,' he said, looking away.

‘Want to talk about it?'

‘No.'

He looked at his watch. Could it still be just two thirty?

He got out of bed and located his pants. He checked the pockets but knew he wouldn't find what he was looking for. ‘Don't suppose you have cigarettes?' he asked.

She shook her head. ‘Too unhealthy and too retro,' she said.

He moved to the window and watched the light traffic zoom by. Beyond the coast highway and the expanse of shadowy beach the nervous dark ocean seemed to blend into the waning night.

The sweet smell of mimosa was still in the air.

He looked at the Mustang, parked where they'd left it, alone and lonely at the manager's office.

He left the window and walked across the room for a wooden chair that he dragged to the door and jammed under the knob.

‘What are you doing?' she asked.

‘Something I forgot in the heat of the moment,' he said, returning to bed.

‘Don't tell me you're worried about Jerry?'

‘He's just the tip of the iceberg.' He slipped under the sheet, feeling electric shocks when his body touched hers. ‘But I wouldn't mind knowing why you wanted this particular place and this particular cabin.'

‘It's nothing for you to worry about,' she said.

‘I worry about everything.'

‘I guess you think I'm pretty naive,' she said.

‘Why would I think that?'

‘I really believed Corrigan was an art dealer.'

‘He is,' Mace said. ‘But it's just a sideline. He brokers weapons.'

‘Guns?'

‘Any kind of war toy. Missiles, tanks, WMDs probably.'

‘What's he want with Jerry?'

‘Corrigan's last deal went sour,' Mace said. ‘The merchandise got lost.'

‘The coin,' she said.

He stared at her.

‘I was in the game room,' she said, ‘eavesdropping on your conversation with Corrigan.'

‘Then you know,' he said. ‘Corrigan won't return to Europe until his deal is back on track. Jerry has the loot to make that happen, if the coin surfaces.'

‘You've got it, haven't you?' she asked.

He frowned. ‘Where's that coming from?'

‘Why else would you be so certain the others don't have it?'

‘I thought you said you were listening in. They sure as hell wouldn't be bothering with the likes of me if they had the coin. They're as desperate as Paulie Lacotta.'

‘And you work for Paulie.'

‘No, I don't. I've known him a long time. He told me he was in a mess and asked me to help.'

‘By romancing me?' she asked.

He smiled. ‘That wouldn't be number one on his to do list.'

‘Why not? Everyone seems to believe Tiny had the coin intended for Paulie. It's logical Paulie would assume I knew something about it. He'd ask you to find out.'

‘To question you, maybe,' Mace said. ‘But not this. Jealousy is one of Paulie's many flaws.'

‘Jealous?' she asked. ‘He and I weren't . . . my God, he didn't tell you we . . . ? That's ridiculous . . . We went out a few times. He hired me to purchase paintings for his place on Mulholland Drive. I wouldn't call that a romance.'

‘Paulie flaw number two: a rich imagination.'

Mace rolled on to his side, facing her, brushing a strand of blonde hair from her forehead.

She pushed his hand away. ‘So
this
isn't about the coin?'

‘Of course not.'

‘Because you already have it.'

‘Suppose I did. What do you think I should do with it?'

She shrugged. ‘If it belongs to Paulie, give it to him.'

‘Then what? Go back to my home and never think about how many poor sons of bitches would be on the receiving end of all the bullets and bombs and missiles?'

‘If you feel that way,' she said, ‘you might as well toss the bloody thing into the ocean.'

He smiled and kissed her, a tender kiss this time.

When it ended, she said, ‘I picked this cabin because it's special,' she said. ‘It's where I lost my virginity.'

There were tears in her eyes when she added, ‘I wish I'd been with
you
then.'

‘We'll just have to settle for now,' he replied, thinking how nice it would be if what she'd said was true. And if what he was feeling turned out to be real.

THIRTY-EIGHT

A
s the cab headed up Mulholland Drive to his residence, Paulie listened to his own voice suggesting he leave a message. He sounded like a punk. He was gonna have to redo the recording, put more man into it.

He'd called his house hoping that Mace would be there to pick up. If he was there and if he knew where they could find Angela, that was that. Even if Mace didn't know, then at the least he'd have company and protection until he was packed and on his way out of town. Maybe to one of the furnished properties Mount Olympus owned in Reno.

He wondered if he should call Jamey Scalise, tell him to send a couple of leg-breakers up to keep him company until Mace showed. The problem with that: Jamey was very loyal to his Uncle Sal and Paulie didn't want Sal calling to find out why he needed muscle.

The cab turned into his driveway.

He got out, shoving a twenty and a ten into the cabbie's hand. The meter registered only $19.80, but a fifty percent tip didn't seem to merit a thank you anymore. Wearing a disgusted scowl, he watched the vehicle depart.
Terrorist bastard,
he thought, mistaking his Korean driver for an Arab.
Probably sends his tips back to buy al-Zawahiri new turbans.

His kidney was still tender. He paused to test it by taking a big, deep breath of cool but polluted Southern California night air. That's when he realized there was a black Cadillac convertible parked with its top up, partially hidden by the Range Rover he hadn't used in months.

And he heard the TV going inside the house.