by Thomas Laird
I flop on my queen-sized bed, and I wake up three hours later, and I order a steak from room service on Willy’s cash. They take the hundred dollar bill I give the kid who brings me the food. The bill is sixty bucks, and I tell the young man to keep the change. It’s all he can do not to swallow his tongue.
Then I flop for another two hours, and when I rise, I go pay off the night’s stay with another of Willy’s myriad C notes. I take a cab to La Guardia, and then I board the plane a half hour later.
*
You don’t see much at the airport in Seattle. There’s no taste of the Pacific Northwest—just a fine drizzle and no scenery except for a whole lot of arriving and departing jets.
I have Dellacord’s address memorized, and I’m hoping he hasn’t moved so I can accomplish my first of three in a three-pronged attack on my old brothers in arms. Costello gets to be the grand finale, if there is one. Tommy’s real good at what he does, too, when it comes to slaughtering people.
I take a cab to the apartment complex where Dellacord lives. I buzz one of the neighbors. I get a buzz right back. Dellacord lives on the third floor, and the neighbor I awoke at 6:10 in the morning is probably very pissed off in his first-floor accommodation.
I pry Dellacord’s lock with a plastic credit card, and the good news is that he doesn’t use a chain or a deadbolt. You’d think he would’ve taken precautions by now, but maybe he doesn’t give a shit anymore—something like me.
I have the piece in the back of my pants, and when I enter the living room, I find him sitting in a tall-backed, plush chair. He’s wearing only a robe.
“Hello, Evan. I’ve been waiting on you.”
He smiles wanly. It’s a sick grin in fact.
“No gun? No pit bull? Nothing, Terry?”
“What’s the point? I tried doing myself, two, three times, but I don’t have the balls. I knew you’d show up. I haven’t got a wife or kids or any close family, for that matter. So get it the over. I’ve been waiting for months, ever since I heard about Carl and Johnson and Miranda. What kept you?”
“There were complications.”
“A lady?”
“Yeah, a lady.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s dead. Somebody shot her. And she was pregnant with my kid.”
His face darkens.
“So now you’re back on the hunt.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who killed your lady?”
“I do.”
“I assume he’ll be on your list, along with McIntosh and Stevie and me.”
I nod.
“So?” he says with his palms upraised.
I level the gun at his head and then I squeeze the trigger and shoot him in the left cheek.
He raises his right hand and tries to plug the hole with his first finger.
Then I squeeze off another round and put a bullet in his right cheek.
His hands and arms flop down on his legs, but there’s still life in his eyes, so I pull a third time and finish him with a .22 to the forehead. His head jerked backward with all three pops, but now his head slumps forward and his eyes are closed, and they aren’t going to open anymore.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Chicago, 1985
The news comes from the State Police in New York about the body of Li Nguyen and the remains of Willy Costello, arch asshole mobster from San Francisco, and the murder scene is ripe with the fingerprints of Evan Azrael, aka William Roberts, formerly of the Bay Area and also formerly of the United States Army Rangers. The dead are risen, and it’s no longer a theory.
And on New Year’s Day, Rita and I get word of the demise of Terry Dellacord. The Homicide copper in Tacoma tells me that Terry took three to the melon, that they were damn near symmetrical—one to either cheek, and one right between the eyes. Azrael has departed from his MO, now, and our Captain of Chicago Homicide has us get on a plane for Seattle–Tacoma.
It’s the first road trip for Rita and me, and they’re going to all the expense because the papers have got hold of the murders of the ex-Rangers, and it’s all over the Chicago Tribune, the Chicago Daily News, and the Chicago Sun Times. Mike Royko, the Pulitzer Prize winning journalist, has written two columns about the killings, about the phantom who disappeared in Vietnam and who came back to life and who has truly become his namesake—the Angel of Death.
The real kicker is that the autopsy of Li Nguyen has determined that it was a double homicide in her case because Ms. Nguyen was carrying a wee life form in her—she was seven weeks pregnant. So the New York people think Willy Costello shot Li and then Evan Azrael killed Costello with extreme prejudice.
Rita and I have about three and a half hours of flight time before we land in the state of Washington, so we have a lot to digest.
“Did you ever think he’d backed off, Jimmy?”
I look over at her tanned, pretty face.
“No. I didn’t think he’d stop altogether. He’s too good at what he does.”
The stewardess asks us if we’d like a soft drink, and we both order a Coke.
“But what if Costello hadn’t killed her?”
“Then someone else would’ve killed them both and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“You mean the Mafia would’ve shot Azrael and Nguyen.”
The stewardess arrives with the two cans and the two glasses with ice in them. She smiles at us. She’s not a kid, the stew. She’s middle aged and well preserved, and Rita gives her a look I don’t like.
“It’s her job,” I tell her. “She ain’t hitting on me.”
Rita laughs.
“What makes you think…? Never mind.”
She pours the Coke into the plastic cup, and then she downs half of it.
“I’m not the jealous type, Jimmy.”
“I believe you. Maybe I’m just a little disappointed.”
“You want me to be jealous of other women?”
“I’m strictly a one-woman guy. I’m like a whale. I mate once, and then it’s curtains for the competition.”
“You were married before.”
“Yeah, and if Erin were still alive we wouldn’t have known each other in the biblical way. I’m monogamous to the gills, Rita.”
Her face softens.
“I just thought I was getting a vibe.”
“Maybe the sweet smile was meant for you.”
“Now you’re just being an asshole.”
“This is a business trip, yeah?” I try to smile.
“Yeah. Yes, you’re right.”
I put my hand over hers, and initially she tries to pull it away, but I keep hold of her, and she finally softens and clasps my hand back strongly.
“There’s no one else,” I tell her. “Just you.”
“We could try the mile high club.” She grins.
“We’ll have separate rooms in Seattle.”
“I’ll give you the extra key,” she smiles.
“We have to keep up the professional demeanor. And you know Doc’s coming back in a month.”
“Then this party will be over,” she laments. Her face goes dark.
“Only professionally. We both knew the partnership was temporary. Maybe it’ll make things easier if we don’t have to be wary at work about letting our situation slip.”
“I was going to ask you, Jimmy, where our situation is, right about now.”
“I told you. There’s only you.”
“I’m not ready for a church or anything.”
“I’ll take whatever I can get for as long as I can, Rita. You have to let me know about the timetable. It’s up to you.”
She looks out the window, but all that’s out there is blue above and rain clouds below.
“We’re not going to find Azrael in Seattle or Tacoma. He’s got business to attend to in Maine and Chicago. And now there’s the brother, Tommy Costello. Undoubtedly he was the guy who put the order out on Azrael, and Willy burst in and shot whoever was in front of him. He miss
ed Azrael, and the Ranger’s training took over and he broke the dude’s windpipe before he put both of his headlights out, and then gave him one more for the hell of it,” Rita says when she looks back at me. “Who do you suppose, Jimmy, is the first choice on his list of people to do?” she cracks.
“He’ll be coming back to Chicago to nail Steven James, but I have no clue where Steven is slotted. I’m guessing he’ll move for Costello first.”
“It’s the suicide shot. They’ll kill him. He’ll never get close.”
“Willy probably thought Azrael was easy pickings, too. He probably figured he’d fling that door open in the cabin and that they’d both be surprised, and he’d waste them both and his business was finished.”
“No, Rita, I think he’ll go for Tommy C first because it’s far more personal.”
“He’s not an Italian, Jimmy. He’s not one of your guys. He’s half Arabic and half Greek, the file reads.”
“He’s a machine, Rita. I knew some of those Special Forces when I was in-country, and nobody messed with them. They’re bulldogs; they never quit. Maybe he won’t get close to Tommy Costello, but I wouldn’t bet my pension against Azrael.”
Rita yawns.
“Am I keeping you up?”
“No, no.” She smiles. “I didn’t sleep worth a damn, last night. I never sleep when I have to travel somewhere.”
“Then take a nap. We still have two and a half hours.”
She squeezes my hand and then she reclines the seat, and she closes her eyes.
I’ve watched her when she’s asleep. I feel very possessive of her when she dozes off because I can never express that kind of feeling toward her when she’s awake. If I did, I’d lose her for sure. She’s got that trapped animal look sometimes, when I attempt to really get close, become intimate with her.
So I stare out that window next to her and I watch the fleecy white and ominous-looking black clouds scutter by us as we head toward Seattle.
*
We meet Detective Serafin at the terminal. He takes us to our hotel first, and then he takes us to a McDonald’s because we haven’t got time for a fancy lunch. We’re only due to stay here over the weekend—today’s Friday, and I turn back the hands of my Timex two hours because we’re on Pacific time now.
He takes us to the site of Dellacord’s murder, and there’s not much left to see, but our Captain insisted we make our presence felt because of Carl Vincent’s and Cal Johnson’s slayings back in our city. We have to lift our legs out here, mostly, just to mark our territory on Evan Azrael. The Captain hopes we can pick up some leads for finding this ex-Ranger, but I’m still of the opinion that we’re standing too far north to be of much good in this investigation.
So we spend the required time according to protocol with the coppers in Tacoma, but our supervisor, our Captain, allowed us to take a side trip to San Francisco to see Tommy Costello. The Boss figured that a ticket to the Bay wasn’t too much more expensive, and he was thinking maybe we could track Azrael down there before he got to the Mafia don. We all know that we’re out of our jurisdiction, but if someone doesn’t catch up with the Ranger, there’ll be more bodies piling up. And Azrael started all this shit in our backyard.
*
The flight to Frisco is, of course, much shorter. We leave for San Fran the morning after we arrived in Tacoma. The night before, I snuck into Rita’s room like a hotel thief, and she giggled like a kid after she looked up and down the hallway to make certain that no one saw me creeping into her room.
She seemed a little bit frantic about the way we made love that night. In fact I never spent more than an hour in my own suite. Rita did not want me to leave her until about an hour and a half before we were supposed to check out and head to the air terminal.
*
Sergeant Bill Terrio of San Francisco Homicide waits for us at the airport. I explain to him that we haven’t got a lot of time and that we’d like to talk to Tommy Costello. Terrio is about fifty and just this side of retirement. He’s bald—I think he shaves his head because even the stubble on the sides is smoothed away and shiny. He looks fit, belying his real age, I’m thinking. He could pass for forty. His eyes are cobalt, somewhere between black and gray, and he smiles broadly at Rita and me in the terminal with all the bodies swirling past us.
“He’s pretty hard to see, Detective Parisi, Detective Espinosa. I wouldn’t go knocking on his door unannounced.”
“That’s why I’d like to ask you to intercede for us.”
He watches us and sees that I’m serious about seeing Costello.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he says, and then he leads us out to his squad car, beyond the terminal.
*
He calls us an hour later. Rita is in my room this time, and we hurried through another sweaty bout because we expected to be interrupted by a message from Terrio. I think my voice sounds a little hoarse and out of breath when I affirm that we’ll be in the lobby in thirty minutes.
“You okay, Detective Parisi?”
“Yeah, I was just out running, and then I was working out in the exercise room they got here.”
I’m hoping they have an exercise room in this hotel. I hate to lie to this cop.
*
He picks us up exactly one half hour later. Rita and I showered together in my room, and then, after a short span of lunging at each other in the spacious shower stall, we finally got dressed and made it out to Terrio’s waiting ride.
*
“I had to dig to get this ‘interview,’ so make it short. I told him it had to do with Willy’s killing, and that turned the tide. Usually he would’ve told me or any cop around here to go to hell. But he sounded interested when I told him the two of you were from Chicago. I think he’s heard your name before, Jimmy.”
Rita shoots a glance my way, but then we get out of the car and stand in front of the Italian–American Club, not far from Fisherman’s Wharf, where Azrael used to hang.
“I’ll be back out here in an hour—unless you want me to come inside with you,” Terrio tells us from the open passenger’s window.
“No. We’ll be all right,” I answer.
He pulls away from the curb.
“Maybe he should’ve come in with us,” Rita says.
I look inside, and I see maybe four or five men inside the club.
“What’s this stuff about you being familiar with Costello?” she wants to know.
“My family has people in Chicago’s Outfit.”
You can’t mistake the sudden blush in Rita’s brown face.
“I said my family, Rita. Not me.”
She eyes me warily.
“Relax. I am not in the Outfit. He probably just knows my name because of my cousins. They’re connected. I’m not. Are we going in?”
We walk to the entrance, and I open the door for Rita.
It’s dim inside. The lighting is low, but there are still two or three guys sitting at individual tables reading the newspaper.
Then a guy about the size of a Chicago Bears’ tackle comes up at us from the rear.
“You gotta be a member to be in here,” he says.
He’s got flowing black hair that is jelled backward and it hangs down behind his head at the collar. I show him my badge.
“That don’t go here,” he smiles.
“You know Sergeant Terrio?” I ask. “He set up a meeting for us with Tommy Costello.”
“Who’s the broad?” he smiles lecherously at Rita.
“She’s my partner. Apologize,” I say.
“Screw yourself. That badge don’t do you no good in—”
I throw a fist right into his groin, and he goes down moaning. Two men rise from their seats at the tables behind us. The ape is clutching what’s left of his balls, and a little bile spews out the side of his mouth and onto the tiled floor.
“I’m here to see Tommy Costello. I have an appointment. I mean my partner and I have an appointment. And the San Francisco police department is wait
ing outside, so I expect some courtesy from you assholes.”
The huge simian is now on his knees, so I punch him in the Adam’s apple, and he flops back on his back, gasping for air.
The men at the tables remain standing where they were, and then a figure emerges from a door at the back of the Italian–American club and it walks right toward Rita and me.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
San Francisco, 1985
The man standing in front of Rita and me has nothing in common with the image of a grandfatherly Marlon Brando as Vito Corleone in The Godfather. His complexion is ruddy, weathered, and there are age lines around his eyes. He has a full head of pepper-and-salt hair, but it’s nowhere near as shaggy as his knucklehead bouncer, who’s still clutching his nuts, behind us. The eyes of Tommy Costello are piercing and gray, and he has that slightly bent nose that resembles the beak of an eagle. He’s old school, but there’s nothing romantic in his figure. Costello is one of the most notorious thugs the West Coast has ever produced, and he’s survived a long time because he’s not even remotely stupid. He’s outfoxed the Feds for decades, and the other dons across the country look at him as some kind of evil role model.
There are more murders attributed to him than to any other crime boss in the nation.
“You wanted to talk to me, I hear.”
“That’s why we’re here. There’s a dangerous man who probably wants to see you dead.”
He laughs at my news. Then he stares at Rita, but she lets him have the glare right back.
“This your sidekick?” he sneers.
“The guy on the floor back there didn’t show respect for her, either, and you can see how that turned out, Mr. Costello,” I tell him.
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to get you angry. Bad temper runs in your family, Parisi, is the way I hear it. Let’s go back into my office and get this over with.”
He points the way, and we accompany him.
“Johnny, get off the floor and put some ice on your balls,” he barks over his left shoulder.