Homemade Sin (41 page)

“I think Tony Tums is gonna get whacked,” Carlo Colostomy said even before Vito stood and asked “Whaddya say? Whaddya know?”

The out-to-pasture paisanos were again seated around a large rectangular table in the back room of the Italian Club. In a far corner of the room, hidden in the shadows, a large man slouched in a chair with a baseball cap pulled down low over his eyes. The few members of the club who did notice him assumed he was either one of the dishwashers on break, or one of the waitresses' boyfriends waiting for her shift to finish.

“OK,” said Vito, so the question is who's going to get to whack him first?”

“It's either gonna be the Lucheses or the Columbos,” Carlo said. “They both lost a bundle on the fight. Of course the Bonnanos and the Genoveses took a beating too, but not like the fighter Tony told us to bet on.”

“Whaddya you mean the families lost money?” Tony said, reaching into his pocket for his roll of Tums. “I just told you guyz to bet, I didn't tell you to tell all da families back in New York to bet too.”

“I passed the word on,” Vito said.

“So did I,” Dominic said.

“Me too,” Benito said.

“You know we all gotta give our guys a taste,” Ricky said. “Now all of the five families are after you.”

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” Tony said through a mouthful of Tums. “Most of you guyz can't remember what you had for lunch, but this you get right.”

“I think Crazy Joey Gallo is gonna get whacked at Umberto's Clam House,” Alfonzo Alzheimer's said.

“That was over thirty years ago,” Vito said, shaking his head.

“I say we outta whack Tony right here and now,” said Eddie. “Beat the families to the punch; show the guys back home we old guys can still cut the mustard. Besides, I lost all my cruise money on that fight. I was looking forward to a trip to Nassau.”

“Yeah,” interjected Gianni. “My grandkids ain't gonna get shit for their birthdays. Just lousy Walmart gift cards for a while. How is that gonna make me look with all the other grandpas?”

“I'm gonna be eating dinner in the middle of the afternoon until I die,” whined Eddie Early Bird.

“I may have to move out of the Palms,” Alfonzo said. “All I'm going to be able to afford is the Beachcomber. You know, the place with the sign that says ‘Luxury Rest Home, Funerals, Fine Wine and Fresh Bait?'”

Mickey picked up a butter knife from the platter of bagels on the table and brandished it at Tony. “Now I gotta win at Mahjong, and you know what that means, no old Jewish princess pupela for Mickey. And you know how testy I get when I don't get laid regular. I say we make Tony here sleep with the alligators.”

“No, no,” Vito said. “We old guyz don't do that no more … we'll leave it to the families. They'll send somebody down to do it right.”

On cue, the man in the shadows rose and stretched. He smoothed his silk black shirt into his chinos and cracked his knuckles loudly. “Sorry to interrupt your little meeting,” he said in a thick Brooklyn accent. “I'm called Frankie Fingers, and it ain't 'cause I make finger sandwiches for no freakin' bridge club. I break fingers. I'm looking for Tony Cajones.”

“You from New York?” Alfonzo said. “You must have been sent by Don Cesar; I heard he's pretty pissed. He lost a bundle.”

“Don Cesar is a hotel you cooch,” Vito said, rolling his eyes. “You mean Don Casimaro of the Colombo family.”

“Never mind who sent me,” Frankie said. “Which one of you old geezers is Tony, or should I start calling you Lefty so's you get used to the name?”

All eyes turned to an empty chair where Tony had been seated seconds before. “Hey, Tony sneaked out,” Alfonzo said.

Hussey leapt from the car before it came to a full stop in the parking lot of the Santeria Hotel. Bounding up the steps to her room, she called over her shoulder to Jones and Bella; “I have to check on some things, I'll meet you in the lounge.”

“Well, I need a drink,” Bella said.

“I'll join you,” Jones said. “And I think I'm going to order lunch. We still don't have any hard evidence on Cutter and Dee Dee, but I have a plan.”

Hussey stared in disbelief at the contents of both her doctor's bag and her knapsack, spilled out in a multicolored jumble of vials and bottles on her bed. “Dee Dee,” she said as she started stuffing items back into both bags and searching through the pile of potions and powders for her Mambo powder. “Damn,” she said, “the Mambo powder is gone.” Taking a quick inventory, she also noticed her werewolf powder was missing as well as a vial of her Eros powder, the stuff she referred to as voodoo Viagra. The image of the kitty cat orgy flashed in her head. She knew Mama had stuffed a vial of Borko powder into her knapsack, but that was gone too.

If Dee Dee uses the Borko she's going to make permanent zombies, Hussey thought, I have to stop her.

Tony Cajones sipped a beer and glanced over his shoulder at the sound of the bar door opening. As he watched, an olive-skinned man in a black silk shirt swaggered into the bar. His shirt was unbuttoned to mid-chest level and an array of gold chains swung across a forest of curly chest hair. Tony recognized the man from earlier at the Italian Club. “Mother Mary.” Tony choked on his beer and his Florida tan blanched to milky beige at the sight of the man scanning the room. “Cover for me,” Tony whispered to Roland, as he rolled off his stool ducked low and headed through the kitchen door.

Cutter looked up from slicing Blue-ringed octopus with a large kitchen knife, as a fat blur sprinted past him through the kitchen and disappeared through the outside door into the alley.

“I'm lookin' for da guy dat yused to be called Tony Cajones,” Frankie Fingers told Roland as he approached the bar. “He's an old fat guy, wid a big nose.”

“Yeah,” Roland said, “I know the guy, he comes in here sometimes, but I haven't seen him in a while.” Roland looked sideways at the kitchen door still swinging from Tony's hasty exit.

Frankie Fingers followed Roland's gaze to the door, scowled at Roland, and slipped though the kitchen door in pursuit.

Tony hit the alley behind the Fugu Lounge at a full run, or in Tony's case, a fast waddle. At the dock Tony stopped, breathing hard, not sure where to go. He couldn't go home, they might have his condo staked out and he wasn't safe on the street. Tony imagined mob muscle cruising up and down the street watching for him. His only escape was the bay.

He scanned the harbor and saw a huge, white yacht tied up to the moorings, the name Pale Sea Horseman stenciled on the stern of in gold leaf. The worn planks that made up the pier creaked under Tony's weight as he trotted down toward the boat and slipped behind the mooring post. After a few minutes, when he didn't see anyone on the deck, he cautiously crept up the gangway.

Slinking toward the pilot house, Tony noticed the figure of a man in a captain's outfit standing by the big chrome wheel hunched over a stack of charts, his back to the gangway. Tony slipped past the distracted captain and disappeared through the hatch. He figured the lower deck might offer an empty cabin or a stateroom where he could stow away. When he reached the bottom of a brass, spiral staircase, Tony spied a large door at the far end of the hallway. He carefully opened the door a crack and peeked inside. As he gazed at the well-stocked bar, a wide grin spread over his face.

He stepped inside and sauntered up to the empty bar. “I'm as dry as a popcorn fart in the Atacama desert,” he said to himself as he slipped behind the bar, located the bar freezer, and reached for a frosty beer mug.

“Jones!” Roland said as Jones and Bella strolled into the bar. “How is Hussey? I'm working on getting a lawyer to get her out.”

“Not necessary,” Jones said, “she's already out. I gave her a ride back from the station. She's up in her room. She should be down in a minute. How about a drink?”

“Let me guess.” Roland smiled broadly “You're on duty so you'll have a beer?”

“Make it a Sazerac cocktail. I just quit the force. And I think I'll have lunch too, he announced loud enough for Dee Dee to overhear from her position standing behind the sushi bar. Roland spotted an empty table in the far corner of the restaurant and motioned the couple towards it as he retrieved bottles of bitters, rye whiskey and absinthe from the shelf and began making Jones's drink.

Four men, seated at a back table in the Fugu Lounge, stared intensely at Jones and Bella as they crossed the lounge to the empty table. Jones's police instincts told him two things; one, they were looking for someone and two, they were trouble. Jones eyed the men up and down. He noticed the four men were dressed in assorted loud patterns of madras shorts, pastel polo shirts and deck shoes. They were trying too hard to look like tourists.

As Jones and Bella settled in at their table, the men began talking in low conspiratorial tones.

“Do you see her?” Famine said.

“I don't think she's here,” Death said. “Be patient.”

“What do we do when we find her?” Pestilence said.

“The usual … we try to buy her off, get that dog cure good and buried before someone figures out a way to use it on humans,” Death said.

“And if she refuses?” War said. “If the stuff works on humans, like it does on dogs, it could be worth a fortune and could cut drastically into our profits.”

“We do what we've always done.” Death smiled a toothy smile. “If she won't sell us the rights to the formula, we liquidate her.”

“What about that cop sitting across the room?” War said.

The men went silent as Roland approached their table with another round of drinks. “Our yacht is tied up out on the dock,” Death said to Roland, “I didn't see a harbor master's office so I hope we are not violating any laws.”

“No,” Roland informed him. “It's a public dock. How big is your boat?”

“Yacht,” Death corrected him. “A hundred footer.”

“Nice boat,” Roland said as he turned and headed back to the bar.

“We'll get her out of the restaurant first, of course,” Death said, addressing War's last concern, “then we'll liquidate her.”

“Can we get a little business done while we're waiting?” Pestilence said. “We might as well make use of the time.”

“Good idea. The next order of business is that president who's pushed through universal health care,” Famine said. “We can't let that be fully implemented.”

“I say we do what we usually do,” War joined in, “throw lots of money at the other party. That'll put the players in our pocket and even if the candidate gets reelected, we make the powers in that party kill it.”

“And if that doesn't work?” Pestilence said. “What's plan B?”

“We handle it the same way our predecessors handled Jack Kennedy,” War said. “When Kennedy started messing with deregulating homeopathic drugs, our predecessors found a scapegoat and had him taken out.”

“I remember that,” Pestilence said. “Some voodoo lady gave Kennedy some natural remedy that cured his back problems and he started pushing to allow non-regulated medication onto the market. Our predecessors had no choice but to take him out.”

“Very expensive and very tricky,” War said shaking his head, “it cost all of our organizations lots of money to pull that off. Paying off Hoover alone cost us a mint.”

“Yeah,” Death said, an evil smile dancing on his face, “but we got even with Hoover in the end. My predecessor had Hoover's personal doctor lace his blood pressure medicine with estrogen. I wonder how much of the pay-off money he blew on chiffon evening dresses and Italian pumps?”

All four men adopted Death's malevolent smile. Basking in absolute power, they sipped their drinks and waited for Hussey to turn up.

“I see you already have drinks.” Dee Dee passed out menus to the Four Horsemen. “I'll give you a few minutes to decide.”