Dead Birmingham (7 page)

The man called Shakes did not turn around. Francis spoke again.

“We need you to come with us. We got some questions for you.”

Shakes turned around, quickly, now. “Go to hell.”

“Have it your way, pal.”

The man to Francis' right moved in quickly, and put his hand on Shakes' shoulder. Shakes spun with surprising speed and pushed the man's hand high with own right hand, and yanked his elbow down hard with the other. He moved in behind the man and started backing toward the door to the bar, using the Italian as a shield. His companion pulled a pistol from inside his coat, and Francis and his other men immediately drew their weapons in response. Everyone stood there, weapons drawn, uncertain as to what to do next.
 

“Hey, Francis, make this fuckin' Mick let go of me!” The man in Johnny Shakes' grip cried out in almost comic desperation.

The other men laughed aloud, but held their guns on Shakes. The man who had been with Shakes inched closer to the front door of Finnegan's.

“Don't let him go in there!” Francis yelled. “Half of Longshot's boys are probably in there.”

The man that Shakes held made his move. Reaching behind him with his right leg, he tried to sweep Shakes' feet out from under him. But Shakes countered by stepping backward. The men's legs became entangled, and they stumbled against the outer wall of the bar. Francis and his friends instantly lunged forward.
 

Shakes spun and threw the man he had been holding into the way of Francis' men, then managed to claw the door to Finnegan's bar open, and dashed inside, his friend right behind him.

Francis and his men charged into the bar after them.
 

Inside, Ganato's four men hesitated. It was dark in there, and they were slightly disorientated. Francis could hear just fine, though, and he didn't like what he was hearing.

“Guineas! Ganato's gang!” men's voices shouted. Chairs scraped and tables were thrown to the side.

“Let's kick some ass!”

Several men jumped Francis' companions, slapping their weapons from their hands. His men howled with rage and began slugging it out with Longshot's thugs.

Francis looked up to see a big red-haired man vault the bar, a Little League bat in his hand. He was running at Francis. Francis fired low, clipping the man in the leg. He fired another couple of shots into the ceiling.

“Everybody just KNOCK IT OFF!” Francis pulled his handkerchief out with his left hand and mopped his brow. There was a scar on that hand, the scar of a bullet that had gone through his palm. It was something that had happened on another day when things had gone terribly wrong, a day much like today.

“Nobody wants to fight, you bunch of stupid pogues. We just want to ask Shakes here a few questions concerning a matter.”

The red-headed man sat heavily on a bar stool and put his hand over the hole in his leg. But the bullet wound hadn't dampened his spirits. He threw aside the bat and laughed, and nodded toward the back of the bar. “Well, if you weren't blind, Dago, you'd see that he has already ducked out the back, so you can take your questions to hell with you.”

Francis frowned mightily. “Ah, Christ.” He didn't think that Don Ganato was going to be very pleased with the way things were working out.

 

Chapter 13

 

Scott LaRue had things to do. He had places to be. Things had gone awry, maybe, but he was a never-say-die kind of guy, and he had a plan. He knew that he was walking into danger, and possibly even to his doom. He knew a second visit to Malvagio's Antiques was a dangerous proposition, but he was ever the opportunist, and he realized that if he could get the key to the box and keep his skin, all his troubles were over.
 

And so, his first trip was not to the old man's store, but to a very different shop, on First Avenue North, just over the Twenty-Second Street Bridge. The place was called Ponders Pawn, and the owner shared a very special relationship with Scott and his friends—he was their fence.

Chance Ponder was a pawnbroker, and he had two simple rules: buy cheap and sell dear. If you always followed those two simple rules, you could make a handsome living. You could even get wealthy at it. Most of the time you were holding onto something for someone, collateral on a small loan. They paid you every month, with heavy interest, until they could finally pay off the loan. This made you most of your money. But there were catches.
 

There were slow months, and the bills still rolled in. Sometimes people came in with things they had no intention of ever returning for, so you had to be careful not to loan too much money out, or else you would take a hit on the item. People also liked to pawn stolen things, which you could not resell.
 

Unless, of course, you were a fence. Chance Ponder was just that, and it was a sideline that he had picked up during a slow month, when a group of young boosters had come into his store. Since that day he had been a fence of a most exclusive type—for them only.

So on this particular sunny day when Scott LaRue came into his shop, Ponder merely smiled and nodded.
 

“Scott. It's been a while. What have you guys been up to?” Ponder noted that Scott had come alone, which was unusual. The young man carried a backpack, however, which he assumed was full of stolen goodies.
 

“What have you got for me today?”

Scott said nothing for a second, then he shrugged.
 

“Listen, Chance, I've got a problem. I've got something . . . something big maybe, but I don't know how to move it. Thing is, I don't even know what it is. I just know that whatever it is, I've got to go see someone before I can get it to you . . . and I may not be coming back.”

Chance listened to all of this dispassionately. “Uh-huh. That's great, Scott. Now, would you like to slow down and tell me just what in hell you're talking about?”

Scott smiled, laughed, and relaxed a bit. “Sure, Chance. Sorry. I guess that probably didn't make a lot of sense . . . it's just that, well, I can't give you a lot of details right now. Suffice to that I may have gotten in over my head this time. I might just end up with something to make it all worthwhile, but first I have to take a big risk. I'm going to do that this evening. If everything works out, I'll be back with a big score. If not . . . well, I think I might have crossed someone who . . . who might not overlook it.”

“Aw come on. You make it sound like life and death.”

“I think it is. See, something happened to Mule. I sent him to . . . to check on a matter connected with this thing. Two weeks ago. He's disappeared. None of us know where he is now.”

“Christ, kid.” Chance Ponder looked around as if suddenly worried Scott had been followed.

“Don't worry,” Scott said with a grim smile. “I made sure that no one knew I was coming here. Besides, whoever this thing belonged to, they don't even know who I am . . . yet.”

“And your friends?”

“They don't know about any of this. I'm taking care of this myself. It's sort of all my fault anyway.”

Scott put out his hand. “Anyway, I wanted to say so long and thanks for everything, if we don't see each other again.”

Chance took the younger man's hand and shook it slowly. “Be careful out there, kid.”

Scott nodded, and turned to go. But he wasn't going back to Malvagio's little shop, just yet. He still had one place left to go before he returned there. And he dreaded that visit . . . more than jail, or even death.

 

 

BOOK TWO

 

He was a pale man, a slender man.
 

To the few who knew of him, he was The Foreigner.

He moved like a cat.
 

His face, to those few who ever saw it, was a white expressionless mask.
 

His soul was as blank as his face.
 

It had grown that way, because of his work.
 

He had done his bloody work for over twenty years.

It was special work, and few could perform it well. To do so, one must exist on the fringes of society, never being close to anyone. It was brutal, evil work, and he was perfectly suited to his trade. He had begun life as an orphan in Cold War Europe, and he had entered his teens as a refugee, a lost soul in a lost time. He had found his way into the Intelligence field from a prison cell. He had been chosen for his skill. He had made his living the best way that presented itself to him.
 

He had become a killer.
 

In the beginning, it had put food in his mouth, but in the end, he did it because it was all that he understood. He possessed no ideology. The strong killed the weak. It was the way of the world, and nothing would ever change that. He did not consider those he destroyed. He neither admired nor despised them. He would live and they would die. No other calculus was necessary.

In the end, however, he had found art in it. He had discovered things about himself, also. He was fast, and he was stealthy. These things came naturally to him. He had worked long years at honing these traits. Now, his hands moved so fast they were all but invisible. When he walked or ran, he moved with ghostly silence. If he boasted—and he did not—he could boast that he had spent weeks in densely populated cities, and no human being had ever heard his voice or seen his face. He stayed away from people. He didn't like or understand them, and he had no desire to ever do so.
 

His sole connection to the real world lay in a firm in Vienna. A representative notified him when his ethereal skills were needed. Those skills did not come cheaply. A man who kept moving always needed money. The employers for such rarified talents were always able to pay. The quarry was usually some middle-aged man guilty of some corporate malfeasance. Their eyes almost seemed to confess their crimes, when at last he found them.

This one, however, was different. He had actually felt a pang of conscience after the first one. He had taken no joy in it. It was done precisely as the employer had instructed. But in the end, he had seen his own younger self in the death throes of the boy. Bloody, pale, thin, homeless. What should have been a life smeared over his dead young face, an indignity.

But enough. There were more to do. He would find them, and he would kill them also, not because there was any pleasure in doing so, but because killing was all that he could do, and when the day arrived that he was unable to kill any more, he knew that he would put a gun in his mouth and blow his brains out. Because for him, there was no other way.

* * *

I sat in the squad room with Broom and McMahon. I had come over after Broom had brought me up to speed over the telephone.

“So this old guy, Malvagio, did he happen to say why this jewelry box is supposedly so valuable?”

“The thing's old. Medieval. It's possibly made of precious materials, but its age and history give it a value that the boosters won't be wise to, in all likelihood.”

“This thing worth killing over?”

“Killing? I don't know, Broom. You and I both know that people have killed for much less. I don't want to speculate.”

“We're not going to. Roland, I need to talk to this guy. I got a dead kid down in the morgue. Somebody cut his hands off. While he was still alive. What does that sound like to you?”

“Jesus. That sounds like somebody's teaching a lesson. Keep your hands off my goods. I'd say the Mafia.”

“Exactly what I thought. I went to see our local Brotherhood of Benevolent Businessmen, however, and they decried any knowledge.”

“You talked to Don Ganato?”

Broom shrugged. “I went straight to the Don himself, yeah. He pretty much assured me that his people weren't involved.”

I thought for a second. “You believe him?”

“Yeah. He's a criminal, one of the worst, at that, but I suspected it was someone else pushing the buttons here, anyway. It's just not the Ganato people's—I hate to say it—not their
style
. And our Irish pals across the river are out, too; they're nothing but a bunch of bruisers and skull-busters. Now, I don't want to try and guess just what kind of people would do something like that, but it looks like we're dealing with what I have to call a ‘professional' of some type. So I'm really interested in this Malvagio guy who hired you, since we watch the Ganato family pretty close and I know he's not one of theirs.”

“I understand that.” I shrugged and spread my hands wide. “But I doubt he's the same guy who hired this contract man of yours. I mean, why would Malvagio hire me, if he had some wet boy out there on the job already? We'd be working against each other, so one way or the other he'd be wasting his money.”

“Don't know. Maybe you were just insurance. Then again, maybe this Malvagio guy isn't telling you the whole story. Maybe something here is more important to him than money.”