Standing at the Scratch Line (84 page)

“Let’s go then. The cops’ll be crawlin’ all over this place soon.” Leo pushed himself erect and smiled at Volante. “Hey, you got a gun?” he asked, offering Volante one of his.

Volante declined. “No, but I won’t need one, will I?”

“Go ahead and take it,” Leo urged, offering the revolver butt-first. “You can never tell what’s gon’ happen. It always helps to have an equalizer with you.”

Volante took the gun and looked down at Beppo’s body. “It didn’t help him,” he commented dryly.

“Well, maybe he wasn’t lookin’ where he should be lookin’!” Leo suggested without sympathy. “We got to get out of here. I got a car waitin’ downstairs. Let’s go!”

Volante picked up his bag and walked out of the room, followed by Leo. They went down the stairs toward the back door through which Volante had entered earlier. The porter was no longer sleeping by the door. Just before he got to the door, Volante thought he saw the porter’s feet sticking out of the half-open pantry. He didn’t stop to investigate. The porter was not his responsibility.

Two husky men were waiting by the car. As Volante descended the stairs, Leo shoved him roughly from behind. Volante missed a step and stumbled down the remaining stairs, ending up sprawled on the pavement. “What the hell!” he exclaimed as he picked himself off the ground. When he stood up he saw a pistol aimed at him. “What’s going on?” he demanded.

“I’m Leo Minetti Pagnozzi! Does the name Minetti ring any bells, you goddamn Judas?”

Volante suddenly realized that he was the object of a hit. Leo was going to kill him to avenge either Vito or Tony’s death, or possibly both. Someone hit him from behind before he could react. He did not lose consciousness, but he was stunned. He was kicked and punched into the backseat of the car. One of the burly men joined him. Volante sat up with an effort. Blood was running down the side of his face. “You got it wrong, Leo,” he explained. “I didn’t have anything to do with the deaths of Don Vito or his brother!”

“I don’t want to hear your goddamn cowardly lies, asshole!” Leo snarled. “If he says another goddamn thing, Tosca, hit him!” The hulk next to Volante grunted and nodded his head.

Volante rode in silence. He was thinking about a way to escape. He figured that the gun that Leo had given him was either empty or malfunctioning. He still had the derringer, but it had only two shots. Nonetheless, if he used it at the right time, he might surprise his assailants. The car turned onto a road that led to some isolated and decaying docks on the edge of the Mississippi. Tosca produced a gun and motioned for Volante to get out of the car. He obeyed.

The moon had long since left the cloudless night sky. The stars overhead were dim against the diffused light of New Orleans. Out on the black waters of the Mississippi, there were many well-lighted boats, barges, and ferries plying up and down the river. The only electric light emanated from a distant lamppost near the entrance of the docks. Volante thought of all the people in the distant boats and ferries who would continue on living and breathing after he was dead. More than anything, Volante wanted to be on one of the lighted vessels traveling on the great river, to be part of the educated conversations over dinner, to be drinking at a long bar with beautiful women.

“You betrayed my grandfather when you arranged the hit on Don Vito Minetti!” Leo declared as he stood on the other side of the car. “My mother was the daughter of Don Vito Minetti. Your boss, my Uncle Joe Petino, is married to my mother’s sister. Even though Don Cabresi had given you asylum, we been waitin’ for our chance. We never forget! I swore to my mother that I would kill the dog who murdered my grandfather!” Leo began taking off his jacket and rolling up his shirtsleeves. He pulled out a knife with a short, thick blade. “They call me Leo the Knife. Guns are okay, but I prefer to kill with this. It causes more pain. It lets you get up close, so close you can smell the fear. I’m goin’ to get real close to you!”

“Did you kill Beppo and Sal?” Volante asked.

“You noticed the knife work, huh?” Leo asked with a smirk. “My Uncle Joe, he likes things done thorough. Uncle Joe thinks Don Cabresi had gotten soft in his old age. He doesn’t think the Don has the balls or energy to run the rackets down here. He thinks it’s time for him to take over. Your two boys had to pay the price for being on the wrong side, but their deaths were easier than yours is going to be. Since Mack didn’t kill you, I get to do it, and I’m going to take my time.”

Volante stepped back from the car and pulled out the revolver that Leo had given him and all three of his captors laughed. He flipped open the cylinder. The gun was empty.

Leo walked around the front of the car and came toward Volante. “Do you think I would be stupid enough to give you a loaded weapon?” He started to run at his intended victim, but Volante threw the revolver at him, causing him to duck. The revolver whistled past Leo and hit Tosca’s partner on the bridge of his nose. Volante had no time to enjoy the success of his aim. Leo was on him quick as a cat, thrusting and slashing with his flickering blade. Volante barely staggered out of reach of each arc of the knife. Leo laughed as he circled his victim. With each attack, he struck at Volante’s torso. He was enjoying himself and was in no particular hurry. He was toying with Volante, trying to wear him down by making him dodge the moving blade.

After a few minutes, Volante began to get winded from evading Leo’s quick lunging attacks and he was beginning to breathe heavily. So far he had only been nicked, but he could tell Leo was getting closer with each sally. He fumbled in his right-hand pants pocket for his derringer and Leo chose this moment to attack.

Leo did a quick forward roll, which somehow allowed him to get within striking distance of Volante. He lunged with his blade. Only at the last minute was the thrust blocked by Volante’s bare left hand, but he paid a penalty. The keen edge of the knife sliced open his palm. Leo kept up his attack until he drove the blade of the knife into the soft flesh of Volante’s side.

Volante squealed and staggered backward. Leo stood for a moment, admiring the blood covering the short blade of his knife. “That was for my grandfather,” he announced. “This one’s for my mother!” Leo attacked again without warning. Due to his wound Volante no longer had the ability to take evasive measures. Leo feinted and drove his blade hard past Volante’s guard, aiming directly for his liver. It was a well-aimed thrust and hit the mark squarely. The blade, however, was stopped by Volante’s money belt. The momentary hesitation caused by Leo’s surprise was his undoing.

Volante pulled the derringer from his pocket and fired point blank into Leo’s chest. Leo stumbled backward but maintained his balance. He looked down at his chest where the bullet had entered and then sank to his knees. “You had a gun?” he gasped before he fell face forward into the dirt.

“I guess you weren’t looking where you were supposed to be looking!” Volante gasped, holding his side. He sank down on his knees from the pain of his injury. He heard Tosca bellow and come running. Volante was getting dizzy and light-headed. He watched as Tosca knelt down and cradled Leo in his arms. Tosca moaned and cried over Leo.

Tosca’s partner shouted from the hood of the car where he was lying down, “What the hell’s goin’ on over there?”

“He’s killed Leo, Paolo! He’s killed Leo,” Tosca sobbed.

“Bring that bastard to me!” Paolo ordered. “I’ll make him pay for that and my nose!”

Tosca softly laid Leo’s body back on the ground and turned to face Volante. “I’m gon’ cut yo’ tongue out myself, befo’ I give you to Paolo.” He stood up with Leo’s knife and lumbered toward Volante. When he was close enough he reached down and lifted his victim by the collar of his jacket.

Volante waited until the last moment, then fired the last shot of his derringer into Tosca’s face. Tosca fell over backward and lay still. Volante pulled himself over Tosca’s body and checked underneath his jacket for a gun. He found a .45 revolver in an inside holster. He checked the revolver’s cylinder for bullets. It was fully loaded. He snapped the cylinder back in place. He heard Paolo screaming for his two companions.

When Paolo heard no answer from his associates, he stood up and roared, “I’m gon’ get you, you bastard!”

Pain was clouding Volante’s vision. He wiped his eyes, trying to clear them of the mysterious fog that obscured his sight. He saw the shape of a man coming toward him. He heard the discharge of a gun and the bullet whistled over his head. He took his time and aimed for the man’s torso. He fired several bullets in quick succession and the man fell over on his side. Volante fired a couple more bullets into the man’s body just for insurance and then he passed out.

He awoke in pain, lying in a pool of blood. He sat up with an effort and felt blood trickle down his side. The night sky was growing lighter. The waters of the Mississippi were not black but a dirty brown. He staggered to his feet and walked over to the car. The keys were still in the ignition. From his suitcase he took a shirt and wadded it over the stab wound, using his money belt to hold it in place.

“Next stop Chicago! Next stop Chicago! End of the line!” There was a knock on the sleeping-car door. “Next stop Chicago, sir.”

“Okay! Okay!” Volante acknowledged groggily, awakening from his recurring nightmare about his last terrifying night in New Orleans. When the train at last pulled to a stop, he steeled himself to walk out of the station and catch a taxi. Once in the cab he did not go home, but instead went directly to a doctor who he knew would not report his injury to the police. In a matter of hours he was lying in a convalescent bed recovering from surgery.

The prognosis was that Volante would live, but that did not cause him to rest easy. He had failed in his mission and his boss, Joe Petino, had set him up to be killed. It did not take a clever person to realize that Petino would be even more dedicated to his demise now that his nephew Leo was also dead. He could not go to the Don with this information. It was Volante’s word against Petino’s. Who would the Don believe: a trusted lieutenant or a man with questionable actions in his past? There appeared to be no easy solution to his problem. He found it ironic that the only reason he was alive today was that King Tremain, the man who had caused him to be driven from New York, had disrupted Corlis Mack’s deadly plans.

The next morning Volante had an unexpected visit from Don Cabresi. The Don was a medium-built man with even features and the olive skin of his native Sicily. He was dressed immaculately and his salt-and-pepper hair was coifed neatly in a razor cut. Except for his regal bearing, he could have been a fishmonger like his father in the Old Country. But the Don was a man of the world, aged by conflict and sophisticated intrigue. He was used to commanding men.

Volante tried to sit up, but the Don held out a hand indicating that he should remain supine. Volante was afraid and it left a brackish taste in his mouth. He had seen other men pay with their lives for failure. He did not know what was in store for him.

“So, the warrior returns,” Don Cabresi said with a smile. Volante was confused. He did not know what to say. The Don continued. “I have to say, I misjudged you, Marco. You are more man than I thought. We sent you down to do a job and when things did not go as planned, you killed our enemies. I say to you, bravo!” The Don began to clap and he was joined by his two bodyguards as well.

Volante stared uncomprehendingly and attempted to explain, but the Don silenced him with a hand gesture.

“I know all about Petino and his plans. My friends in the police department have been listening in on his phone for some time. Unfortunately, I didn’t get the information about his setting you up for a hit until after you left, but it seems you didn’t need my assistance anyway. The main members in the group standing against us in New Orleans are dead thanks to you. Petino and his accomplices up here are swimming with the fish. We stand a very good chance of working out a deal to bring bootleg in with the new people in power down there.”

The Don stood up. “I’m going to let you rest now. I want you to get well. I have some important assignments for you. You can even be my man in New Orleans if you desire, but more on that when you have recovered.” He walked over to the bed and stretched out his hand. Volante took it gratefully and kissed it. The Don bent over him and kissed him on both cheeks. “Get well! I need you!” he said before he left the room.

Volante laid back in his bed and said a prayer of thanks. It was almost too good to believe. He exhaled with a long sigh of relief. Fate was not predictable. What he had expected had not materialized. His thoughts drifted to King Tremain. It appeared that the man who had first jeopardized his life and career in New York had saved his life and career in Chicago. Volante made a silent vow that he would no longer seek King to avenge the deeds done in New York. King had exonerated himself in New Orleans. He and Volante were even on the cosmic scales of justice. He would go on with his life and all thought of King Tremain would fade into the past.

F
 R I D A Y,  
M
 A R C H   2 0,   1 9 2 5