Gangster (20 page)

    Get up on the chair, the man said.

    Francis shook his head. Sweat had drenched his face and the collar of his shirt. He was breathing heavily, and the tape was starting to wilt from the wet streams running down his cheeks. The man reared back and slapped him again.

    Get on that chair, the man said. You do it right, it'll be over quick. If you make me shoot you, I'll make sure to take my time.

    The man shoved Francis closer to the chair. The pimp's legs were barely moving, each step a painful quiver. He helped lift him onto the chair and stood back, a gun now in his hand, pointing at the rope above Francis's head.

    Put it around your neck, the man said. Nice and tight. That's all you need to do. I'll take over from there.

    Francis stared at the gun and lifted his hands above his head, feeling for the rope. He put the noose around his neck, tightened it and began to cry. I'm sorry, he mumbled through his tears and the tape on his mouth. I didn't mean for anybody to get hurt.

    But somebody did, the man said.

    It was Jack Wells, Francis said in a clearer voice, pushing at the edges of the tape with his tongue. He made me and Shirley do what we did.

    You weren't much of a pimp, Francis, the man said. And you're not much of a man.

    Please, please don't, Francis begged. I'll work for you. Do anything you want me to do. Just don't let me die like this. Please, don't let me die.

    The man looked up at Francis and holstered his gun. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it and took a drag, letting the smoke filter out through his nose.

    Take care of yourself, Francis, the man said.

    He pulled a leg back and kicked the chair out from under Francis the Pimp. The man walked to the couch and leaned against it, smoking his cigarette, watching Francis shake and twirl until his eyes popped and his neck snapped. He tossed the remains of the cigarette onto the dirty dinner plate and left the apartment as quietly as he had entered.

    Pudge Nichols's mission for the morning was complete.

     *     *     *

ANGELO RINSED out the hand towel and pressed it against Ida the Goose's forehead. She was in her bed, a thick quilt raised up to her neck, righting the shivers of a high fever. She looked up at Angelo and smiled, smelling the fresh coffee Pudge was brewing in the small kitchen just outside her bedroom.

    I can't believe you got him making us breakfast, Ida said. God only knows what's gonna end up stacked on a plate with him behind the stove.

    The doctor said you needed to eat, Angelo said. He didn't say it had to be any good.

    Ida took in a deep breath and Angelo could hear the thick bronchial rasp he knew so well rattling around her lungs. He lifted her into a sitting position, making it easier for her to pass air through a clogged nose and dry mouth. She had been sick for nearly two weeks before she placed a call to a local doctor who diagnosed her with a severe upper respiratory infection. He left behind a large bottle of cough syrup and a crumpled bill for services rendered. Angelo and Pudge arrived two days later to find Ida collapsed on the back porch, the empty bottle of syrup by her side. There was no label on it, Ida said in her defense. And the doctor didn't say how much I should take or how often. Besides, it had a nice taste and it did quiet down the cough some.

    You're lucky it didn't kill you, Pudge said. And quiet your cough permanently.

    That would only happen if I drank a full bottle of that poor man's whiskey you boys sell, she said, dismissing them with a wave of her hand.

    We'll take care of you from here, Angelo said. Stick around till you get well again.

    I don't doubt you're better at it than that sorry excuse calls himself a doctor, Ida said. And a lot better company to boot.

    Pudge came in carrying a platter filled with scrambled eggs, crisp bacon and a stack of toast. Three forks and salt and pepper shakers were crammed inside his shirt pocket. He rested the platter at the foot of the bed and nodded toward Angelo. I left the pot of coffee and three cups over by the stove, he said. How about you grab those and I get to feeding Ida.

    Angelo walked away from the bed and out toward the kitchen. Where do you keep the sugar? he asked over his shoulder.

    First cabinet next to the back door, Ida wheezed. If not there, look on the bottom shelf of the pantry. If it's not there, then it's someplace else.

    Be easier to go out and buy some, Angelo said from the kitchen.

    Ida looked down at the platter by her feet. Looks like you made enough to feed a full crew, she said.

    What you can't finish, we will, Pudge said, removing the damp cloth from her forehead.

    I'm contagious, Ida said. Or so the doctor says.

    Yeah? Well, I'm hungry, Pudge said. And the doctor's not here to tell me otherwise.

    He pulled a fork from his shirt pocket and grabbed a piece of toast. He spread eggs and bacon on the bread, then sealed the mix with another slice. He handed the sandwich to Ida who took it from him. She took a big bite. Then she sat back against the pillows, her eyes closed, her face lit with pleasure. If I knew you could cook like this, I would have had you work the kitchen in the Cafe, she said.

    Wait till you taste my coffee, Pudge said. You'll change that way of thinking in a heartbeat.

    Angelo came back into the room, three tin cups of coffee in his hands. I found the sugar, he said. But not the milk.

    There's none to be found, Ida said, finishing the last bite of her sandwich. You can always walk over to the barn and pull it out fresh. I'm sure Eloise will oblige.

    Angelo handed Ida and Pudge each a cup and sat back down across from the bed. I'm happy with what I have, he said, holding up his tin, steam rising off its lip.

    You about ready for another? Pudge asked Ida, pointing over his shoulder to the platter.

    I'm more than full, Ida said.

    Eggs not done the way you like? Pudge asked.

    The eggs were great. Ida paused to wipe a thin row of toast crumbs off her nightgown and onto the floor. But the hit on Garrett was even greater. The strength was back in her voice. A great first move.

    It was Angelo's plan, Pudge said without a moment's hesitation. He led and I followed.

    It's a helluva start to what's going to be a helluva war, Ida said. A gangster makes his reputation off wars like these.

    We don't care about reputations, Pudge said as he finished the final piece of bacon. We only want to win.

    You'll care when you get older and your blood's not so quick to boil over the idea of a fight. A solid reputation can stop a war just as quick as it can start one.

    The shooting is causing Angus some problems downtown, Angelo revealed. It doesn't look good for a cop to be gunned down, corrupt or not. It looks even worse if it happens in a confessional booth.

    What's it costing him? Ida wanted to know.

    Double the monthly payoffs to every precinct below Thirty-fourth Street for the next six months, Pudge said. And we let the cops make some noise in the papers about how they're not going to stand for shootings in churches. It's just until the old ladies feel safe enough to go back in and tell a drunk priest all about their sin of the week.

    The money you lose now, you'll make back when you take Wells out, Ida said. It all evens out in the end.

    Pudge stood and picked up the empty platter. I'm going to start cleaning up the mess I left in the kitchen, he said to Ida. Maybe you should close your eyes and get some sleep.

    Angelo got up to follow Pudge out of the room, the three empty cups in one hand, but Ida stopped him, reaching out for his arm. Are you okay with all this? she asked.

    Yes, he said.

    I guess I trained you a little too well. Her words were inked with sadness. I needed to make you tough, and to do that I had to chisel away all the soft parts. Maybe I went and made you too hard. It'll serve you well in life, but won't make you much good to anybody else. For that, I have to say I'm sorry.

    What other choice did we have? Angelo's eyes were hard but his words soft.

    Still, I wish now you had time to just be a little boy, enjoy that even for a short while. Pudge, too. I guess it just wasn't meant for either one of you.

    It all happened the way it was meant to, for me and for Pudge, Angelo said. I don't regret it. Not for one minute. You shouldn't either.

    That beautiful wife you found yourself, Ida said, watching him walk away. She still in love with you?

    She was when I put her on that ship, Angelo said with a half smile. But I can't say for sure until I see her again. You know what a cruise does to women.

    It's probably why I never went on one, Ida the Goose said.

    She stared at the doorway as Angelo passed through to join Pudge in the kitchen. She put her head back on the pillow and listened to the two of them wash pans and dry dishes and argue over what went where. She closed her eyes and wiped at the tears running down her face with the ruffled sleeves of her gown.

     *     *     *

ANGUS MCQUEEN UNDID the leash around the neck of his English bulldog, Gopher, and watched as the dog made a dash for the shrubs and leaves of Washington Square Park. Angus lifted his face up to the noon sun as he walked past empty rows of benches and large old trees, enjoying the solitude of a daily ritual not even a gang war was allowed to interrupt. A short distance behind him, sitting alone with a folded newspaper across his lap, Spider MacKenzie kept his eye on the boss. The lack of privacy was the one aspect of gangster life that never appealed to McQueen.

    I don't need anybody's help to walk a dog, McQueen had said to Spider before he left his office just west of the park.

    I'm just looking to find a nice place to read my newspaper, Spider said.

    Go sit behind my desk, Angus told him, as he slammed the outer office door. That's a nice place to read.

    Angus liked Spider and found comfort in his silent company. He had just grown weary of the precautions and preparations that were needed to survive a gang war. In his career in the rackets, Angus had never initiated a war nor had he ever lost one. He had always been cautious in his routine and daring in his maneuvers, making all the key decisions with a cold eye on detail and a brutal stance against his opponent. This war was different. Maybe it was because he was too old and too rich to care. Or maybe it was just that the taste of this battle didn't sit as well as had past glories. Whatever the reasons, Angus McQueen felt more like a participant than a principal in what was probably his most important battle. As he watched Gopher run back and forth across the sprawling lawn, a thick twig between his teeth, Angus knew, win or lose, this would be his final war.

    Angus bent down and picked up the twig Gopher dropped by the side of his paws. He reared back and tossed it past a row of benches and into a clump behind a thick oak tree. Gopher sat until the twig landed and then took off in search of it. Angus watched as the dog ran and disappeared behind the tree, sniffing frantically for the piece of wood. He then walked over to an empty bench and sat down, smiling when he looked across the park and saw Spider move three rows closer, the paper still folded over in his hand. Angus closed his eyes and let the warm sun wash over his pale face and dark suit as he waited for Gopher to return.

    From where he sat, Angus couldn't see the dog, but he heard the rustling of the leaves and dirt and that brought an even bigger smile. There was a time Gopher could smell out a stick in less time than it took to sneeze. Now, it looked like the old bulldog was as much in need of a break as his owner. They both should follow the trail Ida the Goose left. Pack your money and your health and take them both out of town long before a bullet ends your day.

    The rustling had stopped for several minutes before Angus stood and walked toward the tree in search of his dog. As he got closer, he whistled several times but failed to receive a response.

    Gopher! Angus shouted out, the sound of his voice only stirring the attention of the rummies asleep under the benches and the young couples entwined on top of them. C'mon, Gopher, Angus said. Get your old ass out here.

    Angus was inches from the base of the tree when he stepped onto a pile of bloody leaves. The blood was brown, thick and fresh. Angus McQueen turned the corner, his hand on the tree, and stared down at his dog. Gopher was laying on his side, his throat slashed open. He was breathing in painful huffs, white foam forming and flowing down the sides of his jaw, his eyes staring up at a clear sky.

    He didn't put up much of a fight, Jerry Ballister said. But I would expect that from an English dog.

    Ballister stood across from McQueen, the dying dog between them, holding a gun in each hand. You turned your back on my offer, he said. For that alone you should die.

    Angus beat his fists against his sides, frozen in anger by the sight of his dog, his eyes moist with tears. You had a beef and it was with me, he said through clenched teeth. The dog had no damn part in it.

    I figured this way, you wouldn't have to be buried alone, Ballister said, baring his teeth as he cast a glance down at the dog.

    Angus bent down on his knees and petted Gopher, the dog's tired eyes looking up at his, his breath coming in shorter spurts. Shut your eyes, buddy, McQueen whispered, one arm wrapped around the dog's bloody neck. And let it happen. There's nothing to be afraid of.

    Ballister stepped up behind McQueen and pressed a gun against the back of his head. Except for me, Ballister said.

    He fired two rounds into McQueen's head and two more into the small of his back. Ballister watched McQueen fall, then turned and left him there, facedown in the leaves, the front of his body keeping his dead dog warm, the black leash still wrapped around his right hand.

    Spider MacKenzie sprinted toward the sound of the gunshots and skidded to a stop when he saw the two bodies. He had dozed off sitting under the sun reading the newspaper and had bolted awake as soon as he heard the shots. He stared down now at the body of the man for whom he had worked most of his life. He swallowed hard, ran a hand across his face and took two deep breaths.