“I know how they got in,” Carlos Messina said, “and I know what your man Bobby was doing when they got the drop on him, chasing pussy.”
I need to get this conversation back on track, like I practiced it in my head on the drive over here
.
“Shane doesn't normally work the door,” Tony said. “He's supposed to be inside by the stairs, yet just before all this shit went down, he stepped outside to relieve the regular doorman. Shane says the kid told him he needed to take a piss, but now no one can find the kid to confirm Shane's story.”
“What do you mean you can't find him? Who is he?”
“Spanish kid named Hector. His girlfriend says he hasn't been home since the robbery.”
“Who's looking for him?” Carlos asked.
Tony smiled. “Shane.”
“You think this kid could have set it up?”
“Not by himself,” Tony said. “Hector's not that smart.”
The Old Man pushed himself farther into the cushioned back of his chair and looked up at the ceiling. It was almost a full minute before he said anything. When he did, his voice was low. “You know what matters to me the most? I mean above everything else?”
Unless it was a retirement home in Florida, Tony really didn't give a shit, but he knew enough to know he couldn't say that. “No, sir.”
“Loyalty,” Carlos Messina said. “Because without that we
got nothing. We're no better than those fucking animals out in the street, just a bunch of niggers with guns. That one thing, loyalty, that's what separates us from them.”
“Shane's got no loyalty except to himself.”
Carlos looked at him. “Why do you say that?”
Everything Tony knew about old-style mobsters he had learned from watching
The Godfather
. He didn't know anything about Sicily. He had never been there. He didn't have any idea from what part of the Island his own family had come from. For all he knew, he might not be Sicilian. His family might be from mainland Italy. But what he did know, thanks to Marlon Brando, was that all of the old-timers cared a lot about their heritage. So he played that card, the heritage card.
“Shane's not one of us,” Tony said, “and I don't think we should have some stupid Mick handling our business. We should be taking care of it ourselves.”
Carlos got a far-off look in his eyes, like in his mind he saw himself forty years younger and a hundred pounds lighter, traipsing through the rugged hill country of Sicily, a cloth cap perched on his head and a single-barreled
lupara
resting on one shoulder. “Maybe you got a point,” Carlos finally said. “Something like this, it should be handled by members of the family.” He glanced at the telephone. “I'm gonna tell Vinnie he better get off his ass andâ”
Tony raised his hand, almost like a kid in school interrupting the teacher. Time to drop the other shoe, but carefully. “Mr. Messina, your brother is . . . under a lot of stress, even before this happened. He was taking care of Pete . . .” For effect, Tony crossed himself. “God rest his soul. He was trying to deal with his money problems . . .”
Carlos's head snapped forward. “What money problems?”
Shrugging, Tony said, “Mainly Pete's school and a couple other things. Me and Vinnie, we're at the House every day, and I guess sometimes he needs somebody to talk to. The other day
he tells me that Pete's school just went up on the tuition. It was already forty grand a year.”
The Old Man's black eyes bored into Tony. “What else?”
“Sir?”
“You said Pete's school
and a couple other things
.”
Tony shrugged. “Just personal stuff, you know, like everyone has.”
“His wife?”
“Just something he mentioned in passing. Apparently, she's been spending a lot of money redecorating their apartment. She bought a new car.”
Carlos Messina looked up at the ceiling again, only this time he didn't have that faraway nostalgic look. This time his teeth were clamped so tight his jaw muscles bulged under his flabby jowls. When he looked back at Tony, he said, “You're on the inside over there. I want you to be my eyes and ears. I want to know what the fuck is going on.”
Tony nodded. Everything was falling into place.
Carlos laid his big hands on his desk. “So besides the Spanish kid, you think these mutts had somebody else on the inside?”
“They had to.”
“Who?”
“I don't know,” Tony said, wanting Carlos to drag it out of him.
“Guess,” Carlos ordered.
“Somebody who knew a lot more about what was going on at the club than the doorman.”
“Give me a name.”
“If I had to guess, Shane would be the obvious choice.”
“What about a not-so-obvious choice?”
Tony swallowed hard, exaggerating the motion of his Adam's apple. “I'd rather not say, sir.”
The Old Man leaned over his desk. His voice was ice-cold. “Say it.”
Tony hesitated . . . just long enough. “I guess your brother is one possibility.”
Carlos Messina let out a deep sigh. “We've got big money tied up over there. I don't want anything screwing that up, and that includes my fucking idiot brother.”
The Old Man picked up the phone. Then he looked at Tony. “You understand what I'm telling you?”
Realizing the meeting was over, Tony stood up. “Yes, sir, I understand.” He reached out to shake hands, but Carlos was already dialing a number. After a few seconds with his hand hanging over the desk, and the Old Man ignoring him, Tony turned and walked out of the office. His shirt was stuck to his back with sweat.
Ray turned the corner in his Mustang and glided down Mandeville Street. It was a quiet residential street with modest single-family houses set right up against the sidewalks and nothing but on-street parking.
He found 1224 Mandeville in the middle of the block, a single-story, white clapboard house with a small covered porch. With the late-afternoon sun shining directly on the house, Ray couldn't tell if there were any lights on inside.
He would have to watch the house.
After cruising past the house, he drove into the next block, turned around, and parked next to the curb on the opposite side of the street from the house. It was a long shot, but it was the best lead he had.
The Mandeville Street house was the last known address of Cleo Harris, aka Winky. If the cops had Harris right, and he had killed someone with the same Smith & Wesson .40 caliber that the asshole in the skull mask had used to try to put a bullet in the back of Ray's head, Ray wanted to know what Harris had done with that pistol.
Three hours and nine cigarettes later, Ray's bladder couldn't take it anymore. He drove around the corner and took a leak at a Shell gas station on Elysian Fields Avenue. When he got back, there was a black Dodge four-door parked across the street from 1224 that hadn't been there when he left.
It was just past 7:00
PM
, and completely dark now. A couple of lights were on inside the house, but Ray wasn't sure if they had come on since he had left for the gas station or had been on
already. If this was Harris's house, he probably didn't have a job or keep regular hours, but if it wasn't Harris's house, whoever's house it was had probably just come home for the night.
Ray had not liked surveillance before. Now he hated it. Too much sneaking around. He preferred the direct approach. The problem was, he wasn't a cop anymore, and he didn't have a gun. If this guy Winky was inside, and if he was the shooter the cops thought he was, he would have a gun.
Ray eased his Mustang down the street and parked two houses away from 1224. He slipped out and walked down the sidewalk, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. At the edge of the yard he looked around to see if anyone was watching. Then he stepped onto the porch and stood at the front door.
Pressing his right ear against the door, Ray heard television voices just on the other side, as well as the sound of a baby crying deeper in the house.
Now what the hell do I do?
Nothing else came to mind, so he knocked on the door. Shuffling sounds from inside, people whispering, then a female voice said, “Who's there?”
Ray didn't say anything. Curiosity might make her open the door. The same voice spoke again, this time louder and more insistent. “I said, who's there?”
He knocked again. He heard more whispering, then footsteps walking toward the door. The doorknob rattled. Ray took a deep breath to steady his nerves. The door jerked open. Inside stood a black woman, early twenties, five foot five, a pretty face but chubby, as if from a recent pregnancy. Her long hair was shellacked into a pile on top of her head. She looked hard at Ray. “What you want?”
Ray peeked past her shoulder, but he didn't see anyone else. The other whisperer had disappeared. “Is Cleoâ”
Almost too late he remembered that you never ask a yes-orno question. Make people explain everything. Never give them a chance to simply say no. “I'm here to see Cleo Harris.”
She shook her head. “He don't stay here.” Her answer was an admission that she knew him.
Behind her, in the small den, Ray saw a tattered sofa, two beat-up chairs, and a television perched on top of a rickety stand. “Who were you talking to?” he asked.
She made a show of looking around before answering. “I wasn't talking to nobody.”
“I heard you talking to somebody.”
Working her jaw, she smacked a piece of gum a couple of times. “You must've heard the TV, 'cause there ain't nobody here except me and my baby.”
“I need to talk to you about something. You mind if I come in?”
She put a hand up in front of his face. “I don't know you, mister, and you are not coming into
my
house.”
Ray put one foot on the doorstop. “It'll just take a minute.”
She tried to push the door closed, but he held it open with his hand. She stepped into the doorway and blocked it with her plump body. “You got to have a search warrant to come in my house.”
“I don't need a search warrant,” Ray said as he tried to squeeze past her.
The woman dug her feet into the floor and wedged her arms into the door frame. “My lawyer told me the police need a search warrant to go inside somebody's house.”
“He's right, but I'm not a cop,” Ray said. He shoved her backward into the den.
She screamed out, “Help! Help! He in the house!”
Ray doubted she was calling for the baby. Someone was here.
From a hallway to Ray's left a man rushed into the den. He was black, midtwenties. He came straight at Ray. Ray shot a glance at his hands. No weapon. The chubby girl hung on to Ray's left arm while her boyfriend grabbed the front of Ray's
shirt with both hands and started shoving. Both were screaming at Ray to get out.
Ray had to get the door closed in a hurry. He didn't need nosy neighbors calling the cops. He threw a right hook over the top of the guy's arms that caught him on the chin.
He dropped like a stone.
“Sit down and shut up,” he shouted at the girl as he shoved her away. Then the back of her leg hit the coffee table and she spilled onto the sofa. The guy tried to get up, but Ray dropped a knee onto his neck and pinned his face to the thin carpet. Something he had learned as a cop: if you get control of a man's head, you can control his entire body.
The girl scrambled to her feet. “I'm calling the police!”
Ray added weight to his knee. The man winced. Pointing a finger at the girl, Ray said, “If you don't sit down and shut up, I'll break his damn neck.”
“Do what he say,” the black man yelled at her.
She sat down. The baby started screaming in the back of the house.
Ray looked down at the man whose head he had pinned to the floor. “What's your name?”
Through clenched teeth, the man said, “What the fuck you want?”
Ray put a little more weight onto his neck. “Wrong answer.”
“Okay, okay.”
He raised his knee just a little. “What's your name?”
“Tyrone.”
“Tyrone what?”
“Washington. Tyrone Washington. If you're some kind of bounty hunter, you got the wrong man.”
Ray put all of his weight down on the guy's neck.
He screamed and kicked his feet.
“Stop it, stop it,” the girl cried. “You're killing him.”
Ray eased up, then bent his face down next to the guy's ear. “Try again.”
“My name Cleo Harris.” Saying it so quickly the words ran over each other.
“They call you Winky?”
“Sometimes. But I ain't wanted for nothing. That charge been dropped.”
“I'm not here because you're wanted,” Ray said. “I'm here about the gun.”
“About a gun,” the girl echoed.
Winky tried to turn and look up at Ray. “What gun you talking about?”
Ray pushed his knee harder down on Winky's neck. “The Smith forty you shot the guy on Frenchman Street with.”
Winky tried to shake his head but couldn't. “I ain't had no gun and I didn't shootâ”
A kidney punch shut him up. “I don't care who you shot or why,” Ray said. “All I want to know is what you did with the gun.”
The girlfriend started to cry. “You're hurting him, mister.”
Ray looked at her. “It's up to you. When I find out what I want to know, I'll leave.”
She wiped tears off her cheeks. “Who are you?”
Ray took some pressure off Winky's neck. “The people I work for run a place in the Quarter called the Rising Sun. You know who I'm talking about?”
She shook her head.
“I know who you talking about,” Winky mumbled.
“Who?” the girl demanded.
“Them people,” Winky said. “Them Eye-talians.”