"Any money in that?"
"There was at the time. You ever see the big boss, old Tony?"
"I drove for him one time, but he don't come in here."
"He's got a piece of it, doesn't he?"
The Mutt shrugged.
Johnny said, "I knew a guy at Jackson was a hit man. He got ten grand a pop."
"Shit, I get more 'n that."
"You must be good at it. What kind of piece you like to use?"
"Different ones."
"You say you took out a truck driver, a convict and one other guy?"
"A Chaldean. Guy wouldn't pay his street tax."
"You didn't shoot the convict."
"No, I shanked him."
"So you only actually shot two guys."
"Yeah, but I got one coming up."
"Yeah? You need a driver?"
"I doubt it."
"The hitter I knew at Jacktown always used a driver." Johnny waved the barman over and said, "Lemme borrow your pen."
The Mutt said, "I was thinking of going to the guy's house."
Johnny wrote his phone number on a cocktail napkin saying to the Mutt, "I wouldn't. What if other people're there, the guy's wife? You want to pop her, too? You also got neighbors looking out the fuckin windows." He handed the Mutt the cocktail napkin. "Here. Case you want to get in touch with me sometime."
The Mutt was looking at the phone number now. He said, "For what?"
"Get together and tell stories," Johnny said. "Didn't you use to talk to cons in the yard, hear their stories, what they did, how they fucked up? There was a con at Jackson had pulled over a hundred armed robberies. He'd tell where it was, how much he scored, the times he fucked up, had close calls, scrapes he got into. We'd listen 'cause this guy was funny, he knew how to tell a story and would have us all laughing. Guys'd come up to him and say, 'Hey, Roger, tell us about the time you robbed that Safeway store.' They'd already heard it more'n once, but it didn't matter, it was still funny." Johnny was grinning now and it got the Mutt to grin a little, Johnny saying, "Like we're out'n the fuckin yard, huh?"
The Mutt said, "I do the next fella you can read the story in the newspaper."
"When do I look for it?"
"Next couple of days or so."
"I was wondering," Johnny said, "you ever get to make it with those whoers that come in?"
Chapter
18.
"TONY AMILIA HAS PROSTATE CANCER,"
Terry said, holding the newspaper open in front of him. "But they caught it early, so the odds are he won't have surgery because of his age. By the time it would kill him he'd already be dead from something else. So if he's convicted it won't keep him out of prison."
"I'll bet he walks," Debbie said, "or gets probation and has to pay a fine. He was brought up ten years ago on practically the same allegations and got off."
They were in Fran's library reading the combined Sunday edition of the News and Free Press. A special section summarized the trial, with sidebars that described the personal lives of the defendants and a brief history of organized crime in Detroit, going back to the Purple Gang in the 1920s.
Debbie said, "Did you know they were a Jewish gang?"
"I knew they weren't Mafia." He turned from the paper to look at Debbie on the other end of the sofa, newspaper sections on the cushion between them. "Where'd they get the name, the Purple Gang?"
"They were described as 'colorful,' and some guy they'd leaned on said, yeah, purple, the color of rotten meat, and it caught on." She looked at him to ask, "How's your back?"
"It really is a little stiff."
"I loved what you told Randy--like someone sticking a knife in your back."
"We had him going."
"But he'll never come up with the two-fifty, and he knows we'd never score that much in court."
"He thought we should sue Vito Genoa."
"Yeah, go after a Mafia hit man."
"If that's what he is," Terry said. "In the movies they're always sending to Detroit for a hit man, like they're sitting around waiting for calls. Guy picks up the phone, 'Hit man, can I help you?' I just saw a mention of it." Terry's gaze scanned the spread he held open. "Here it is, three people found murdered and decapitated. The two accused hit men were brought here from San Diego. If we're supposed to have all these hit men, why send away?" He lowered the paper to his lap. "Johnny was talking to that guy he thought was a bouncer? That's Randy's bodyguard, the one you were talking about they call the Mutt. He told Johnny he's sort of a hit man, does it on the side. He says he's killed three people and has a contract to do another one."
"Why would he tell Johnny that?"
"That's what Johnny said. You can tell a con inside, but not some guy comes up to you at the bar. He says the guy's too stupid to be trusted with a contract. The only thing Johnny wanted was the phone number of that redhead he was talking to at the bar. Her name's Angie."
"He get the number?"
"Yeah, but he wouldn't tell me."
Debbie didn't bite, still looking at her section of the paper. They had spent the night in Fran and Mary Pat's king-size bed, getting even more serious and sweaty than any of the times before, here or other places. She took offense when he said, "Honey, you could be a pro," turning away from him saying, "Thanks a lot." He tried to make peace telling her it didn't come out right. "I meant it as a compliment." She rolled back to him saying, "I'm better than any pro, Terry, I'm emotionally involved." Being in bed with Debbie was an experience he could take with him and look at for as long as he lived. There was a tender moment, seeing her face in the soft light from the window, when he'd almost said he was in love with her.
"What I'm thinking," Terry said, "if the Mutt's as stupid as Johnny says he is, and then you read the wiretap conversations, the two mob guys in the car . . . ?"
"I haven't come to that yet."
"Even their attorney refers to them as nitwits. He told the jury they learned to talk tough watching movies like The Godfather and Mean Streets."
"But they're really nice guys."
"Yeah, they can't help it if they've got this image from the movies and people are intimidated by it. There could be some truth to that, you listen to the tapes. The FBI bugged their car and you hear the two guys. They're parked across Michigan Avenue from a party store that fronts a sports book. They refer to the owner of the place as a camel jockey, so he's from the Mideast, maybe a Chaldean. They're gonna shoot out the store window, so the guy must owe them money. But it's raining and neither one of these enforcers wants to get out of the car. The one guy says, 'Can't you hit it from here?' And the other guy says, 'There's too fuckin many people on the street. Look at 'em, walking around. Who the fuck says Detroit streets aren't safe?' They're driving back to the east side and get lost. 'Where the fuck's Ninety-six? It's suppose to be right here.' There's more of the tape, the same ones talking about what would happen if Tony Amilia got whacked. They sound like kids trying to act tough."
"Did they shoot out the window?"
"Not that time. Some of the bookies, witnesses at the trial, said yeah, they'd get threatened but never worried about it too much. They said it's not like you used to read about Gotti and the New York mob."
"They're referred to as the 'quiet mob,' " Debbie said. "Tony Amilia has never been convicted of a crime; he's a family man, fifteen grandchildren; gives to charities, a major contributor to Boysville; minds his own business, Mayflower Linen Supply, and lives quietly in Grosse Pointe Park. I just saw a picture of his home." Debbie turned through the pages of the section until she saw it again and handed the paper to Terry.
"Windmill Point Drive," Terry said, looking at it. "Houses used to be a million and up along there, right on the lake. They're probably more now. It goes, up the shore, Grosse Pointe Park, Grosse Pointe, Grosse Pointe Farms and Grosse Pointe Woods off the lake, across the freeway from Harper Woods, where I grew up. Right below Harper Woods--give you a tour of the east side--is Copland, where a lot of white Detroit cops live. Fran says they're talking about changing the rule and they won't have to live inside the city limits anymore. Most of the mob guys, outside of Amilia, live north of the Pointes, up past St. Clair Shores in Clinton Township."
"The feds would love to confiscate all their properties," Debbie said, "their cars, whatever they own, based on what they've made illegally over the past ten years or more. Twenty million. Which doesn't sound to me like there's a lot of profit in racketeering."
"A couple mil a year," Terry said. "That's not bad."
Debbie said, "Tony makes out, he takes his cut off the top. But what do all the guys under him come out with? Even saying no more than ten or twelve are 'made' members of the mob. I just read there've never been more than twenty-three 'made' guys at any given time here, going back to when they started, in the thirties."
"What a lot of people can't understand," Terry said, "is why they're coming down so hard on illegal gambling in a city where it's always been accepted. I remember when I was a kid, one of the ushers at Queen of Peace was a numbers runner. We've always had racetracks, for years a state lottery, now we've got casinos. What's the difference?"
"But there are bad guys in the mob," Debbie said. "You should know."
"That's right, and there're postal clerks and kids in school who shoot their friends. I'm not defending what the mob does, but they're so low-key you hardly know they're around." Terry kept going. "You said something that interested me before, about Tony Amilia." He paused and said, "I wonder if we could arrange an audience with him, an official visit."
"Why?"
"I wonder if you might be able to work it through your lawyer friend. What's his name? Bernacki? I'll tell you what I have in mind. You like the idea, I think you'll want to give him a call."
He watched her look out the window at the gray morning and turn back to him again.
"You want to talk to a mob boss--"
"Who's known as a generous benefactor."
"Ah, you go in as Fr. Dunn."
"Of course."
"And tell him," Debbie said, "about the little orphans of Rwanda."
Ed Bernacki's office in the Renaissance Center looked down on the Detroit River and Canada across the way, the casino over there in Windsor the only bright spot on the riverfront. He said, "It's Sunday. How'd you know I was here?"
Debbie told him she'd called his home first.
And Bernacki said, "I've got to be more careful who I give my numbers to." He listened to her explanation of why they wanted an audience with Mr. Amilia, and said, "Okay, you want to know what I think? It's not a bad idea. Still, I don't think Tony'll go for it. He won't see it's that important to him. What he's trying to do is avoid any kind of publicity."
"Even when it makes him look good?"
"The press can turn it around, editorialize, say it's fairly obvious why he's doing it. But, I'll speak to him. Maybe Tony will agree, but I have to tell you, I doubt it. One thing for sure, he won't see you at his home. No one steps inside the door but family and close associates."
Debbie said she didn't care where they met.
"I'll get back to you," Bernacki said, and phoned Tony Amilia at his home in Windmill Point that was swept once a week for bugs.
Bernacki asked Tony how he was doing on this gloomy piss-poor Sunday morning, and the man's voice, low and slow, said, "It's funny you should say that. You know what I do all night? Piss. I get up four, five times. Have this tremendous urge, go in the bathroom and the piss dribbles out. It stops and then starts again. I'm in there so long Clara will call out to me, 'Are you all right?' Sometimes it comes out in two streams. I'm thinking, The hell's going on? You ever have that happen, two streams? During the day, in the morning, it's almost as bad. I quit having my coffee in the morning or I'd be pissing all over the courtroom. Which isn't a bad idea. Show 'em what I think of their fuckin case. Ed, I get the urge, I think I'm gonna piss for twenty minutes, it dribbles out. I said to Clara, 'I piss more'n the amount of liquids I take in.' Explain that to me."
"It's a symptom," Bernacki said. "It means your prostate's swollen and impedes the natural flow of urine."
"But why do I piss more'n I drink?"
"That's just the way it seems to you."
"Sometimes there's blood in the piss. My urologist says don't worry about it, you got cancer, what do you expect? Guy's got the bedside manner of one of those Big Four cops, used to drive around in a Buick with their fuckin shotguns."
Bernacki said, "I can understand you sound more concerned with pissing than your trial."
"Fuck the trial. The feds're playing with themselves."
"Tony, I want to talk to you about something that could get you favorable press, which you could use right about now. There's a priest named Fr. Terry Dunn, from Africa, who'd like to talk to you."
"Jig?"
"He's white, a missionary."
"They all come with their hand out. How much's he want?"
"It's a pitch," Bernacki said, "but has an interesting twist to it, an idea you might go for."