The Dangerous Mr Wolf

by Brian Drake

When Wolf arrived at the address, he found Manning parked across the street. He pulled in behind and went to Manning’s car, sliding into the passenger seat.

  “What’s the plan?”

  “Let’s tell them we’re the Avon lady.”

  “We’re both pretty ugly for the--” Wolf was about to say “the Avon lady” but Manning was already getting out. He shut the door. Wolf joined him on the street. He left his coat open for easy access to the Colt; Manning held his revolver against his leg. Manning started across the street. A Honda sat in the driveway. To the left of the garage door was a gate that had no padlock. Wolf watched the gate as he walked across the street.

  Not a soul stirred on the street. Most of the homes had lights on behind curtained windows; somewhere a dog was barking. Wolf didn’t want a fight here, but he had a feeling there was no choice in the matter. He clicked off the safety on the .45.

  Manning stepped up to the door and pressed the bell. Nobody answered. He rang again and then pounded on the door.

  “What is it?” said somebody through the door.

  Wolf watched the gate beside the garage with occasional glances elsewhere. Average police response time was eleven minutes from the time the emergency call went through dispatch; once the shooting started, they would need to be gone in half that time. Wolf’s pulse quickened.

  Manning pounded on the door. “Open up.”

  The front door opened a bit. A pair of eyes attached to a small face looked out. “Who sent you?”

  As Manning raised a foot to kick in the door, the side gate opened and another man with a scatter gun swung around the corner.

  Wolf yelled, “Shotgun!”

  Wolf dropped and rolled as the shotgun roared. He returned fire. The shotgunner crashed back against the open gate. Manning kicked in the door, entered the house, firing twice. Wolf scrambled up and ran inside. He stepped over the small-faced man who had two slugs in his chest. More shots from Manning’s .357. Another gunner came through the connecting door from the kitchen. Wolf triggered a round into his shoulder. The man went down but still raised his gun to fire. Wolf shot him again.

  A girl screamed from somewhere in the house. Wolf advanced down the hallway, turning a corner into a sitting room, the kitchen off to the right. Manning was down a hall, kicking open a door; pounding footsteps above sent Wolf scrambling up the stairway off the kitchen. He reached the first landing and from a bedroom doorway came a fusillade of automatic gunfire. He hit the carpet. The bullets chewed up the railing behind him. He raised his gun and fired a string of shots, moving the muzzle back and forth. He charged up the second flight of steps, still blasting, diving for the open door of the master bedroom. Another burst of fire followed him.

  Wolf stayed flat on the carpet, reloading the Colt, easing along until he was almost near the door. More gunfire shattered the doorframe. He fired back. The shooter appeared to be in the smaller bedroom directly across the landing. Wolf fired through the opposing wall, but the gunman made no sound. Another burst. Wolf rolled away. Bullets chewed more of the doorframe and tore into the carpet. Wolf rolled back to return fire but held as the gunman exited the bedroom and tossed a black spherical object toward him. Wolf rolled again. The object exploded and spewed thick, white smoke. The smoke flooded the bedroom and the landing. Wolf charged through the smoke, catching a glimpse of the gunman as he raced down the stairs. Wolf misjudged his footing and missed the first step, tumbling end-over-end onto the middle landing. His head banged against the railing. He managed to hold onto the Colt.

  Scrambling to his feet, his head spinning, Wolf rushed down the remaining steps as the shooter shoved open the patio door and ran outside. Wolf followed, swinging around the corner of the house, catching the gunman as he ran for the still-open gate. The gunman turned and fired; the slugs tore a chunk out of the corner of the house, pelting Wolf with sharp bits. Wolf fired twice and the gunman screamed, pitching forward to slam face-first into the fence.

  Wolf went back inside as Manning came out of the hall just off the kitchen. He dragged a woman with him. A redhead. She screamed, fighting his grip, but he held on. He tossed her on the carpet.

  “Did we get everybody?” Manning said.

  Wolf nodded.

  “Don’t hurt me!”

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” Manning said. “Who else is here?”

  “Nobody! Just me and the four guys.” Her eyes focused on Wolf. “What the hell is going on, Wolf?”

  “You got mixed up with the wrong people, Stacy,” Wolf said. He knew her. She was a working girl that normally made the rounds of the bars in the Mission District. “Did they pay you?”

  “The guy who answered the door did,” she said, getting up. She straightened her clothes.

  “Did they talk about anybody else?”

  “All I know is they had a fight about me being here. They had to hide a bunch of guns.”

  “We got lucky,” Manning said, putting away his revolver. “We gotta go.”

  “Take me with you!”

  Manning said, “Get a cab,” as he moved to the door.

  “Wolf!”

  “Come on,” Wolf said. He held out a hand and led the woman out of the house. Sirens in the distance. He put her in the back of his car. Manning was already driving away. Wolf started the car and followed him. He drove with his hands tight on the wheel. They had cleaned up the shooters. News of the fight would spread fast once the cops showed up. Now they had to find Andy Lazzo and his silent partner before they skipped town.

  He looked in the rearview mirror at Stacy. “Where to?”

  “Just take me home,” she said.

  Wolf stood beside the Absolutely No Smoking sign puffing on a cigar. He had cleared his mind of the night’s activities.

  When Melody Chapman pulled up in her Chevy, she carefully parallel parked and exited the car. She approached the building with her head down. Wolf said hello and she stopped.

  “Your husband’s not home,” he said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Melody, if there was one thing I could do for you, what would it be?”

  She moved her mouth a little but did not reply.

  “Follow me,” he said. He placed the cigar on a step and went inside. They went up to his apartment. She stood by the door while he went into the bedroom. He came back with a small revolver which he offered to her.

  “I can’t take that,” she said.

  “The next time he tries to hurt you, shoot him.”

  “Wolf--”

  “Some people need others to tell them that they can do things they don’t think they can,” Wolf said. “Take the weapon.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “Melody. Please. I may not be here next time.”

  “You said that already.”

  Wolf lowered his arm. He watched her. Melody kept her eyes on the floor but did not make a move to leave.

  “Okay,” she said.

  Wolf handed her the gun.

  He saw her into her own apartment and then went back outside. He had to relight the cigar. After he finished it, he climbed into the Cadillac and started driving.

  It was a short drive. He parked in an alley and climbed the fire escape to the roof. He waited.

  Presently the fire escape squeaked, and a man grunted with effort. Wolf watched Inspector Callaway reach the top. The cop dusted off his jacket and went over to Wolf.

  “Can’t we just meet at Starbucks?” he said.

  “Their coffee is too bitter,” Wolf said.

  “Do you know anything about a house in the ‘burbs with four dead men in it?”

  “Nope.”

  “They were all shot with either a .45 or a .357.”

  “Common calibers, Inspector.”

  “Sure, they are. They’re also from Chicago. Known gunmen. Wanted for all kinds of things. We have no record of them arriving in town.”

  “Must have come by boat.”

  “Sure. Maybe they landed in Oregon or upst
ate and found a boat. Whatever. But I think that’s the end of the mass shootings.”

  “One hopes,” Wolf said. “Gulino and Sanchez want to see me tomorrow. Pow wow and all that.”

  “Be sure and give them my regards.”

  “I know they’ll appreciate it,” Wolf said.

  Callaway pulled an envelope from his coat pocket. “You might want this.”

  Wolf took it, opened the envelope, looked at the picture inside. “Lazzo?”

  “Uh-huh. Don’t say I never help you.”

  Petra Sanchez met Wolf at the entrance to Gulino’s place. She wore a red dress with her hair down. The dress accentuated her slender curves and round rear end. Wolf grinned at her.

  “What?” she said. “Never seen a woman before?”

  “I wasn’t expecting a formal meeting.”

  “Like you’d dress up anyway. Come on.”

  Sanchez and Gulino waited on the back patio at a table with cold cuts and other munchies. Gulino told Wolf to help himself, and Wolf piled up a plate.

  Gulino said, “Vince tells me you two had a good night.”

  “Callaway says the shooters were from Chicago,” Wolf said, and relayed the rest of the conversation he had with the inspector.

  Sanchez chimed in. “So, we need Lazzo and the other guy. Spare no expense, no resource.”

  “We need to leave them for the cops,” Wolf said.

  “No way,” Gulino said. “This is our business.”

  “It’s the public’s business,” Wolf said. “Innocent people have been killed. The public needs the reassurance. The cops need the victory. We find them, we turn them over.”

  “I can’t order my people to do that,” Gulino said.

  “Or mine,” Sanchez added.

  “You need to put that attitude aside,” Wolf said.

  “Who the hell are you to tell me I need anything?” Gulino said.

  Wolf just smiled.

  “He’s not kidding, Daddy,” Petra Sanchez said.

  Gulino swallowed some salami. He said, “If we let the cops handle this, the point isn’t made that you don’t mess with the organization.”

  “Of course, the point is made,” Wolf said. “Once they’re in police custody, maybe even in jail, you know how accidents happen.”

  Sanchez nodded. “Good point.”

  Gulino let out a sigh and looked away for a few moments. The rest of the table watched him without comment. Eventually he said, “Okay, Wolf. We’ll do it your way.”

  “Don’t sound too excited.”

  “I want those two found, and fast,” Gulino said. “This has gone on too long already. You got a lead?”

  “Yup.”

  “Then I don’t want you at my table anymore. Get out of here.”

  Wolf stayed in his seat.

  “Don’t argue with me, Wolf. Not right now.”

  Wolf grinned and stood up. Petra showed him out.

  Wolf put the photo on the seat and left the car. The Cherry Hill neighborhood sat atop a hill overlooking the city. From the very top you could have a nice 360-degree view, but from where Wolf stood now only the eastern side of the city showed itself. The bright city lights shimmered with the post-day haze. Wolf started making the rounds of the bars, scanning faces, and quickly felt like he was pushing a boulder up a mountain. He worked up and down the block with no success and then stopped in an alley to light a cigar and think about it.

  If Andy Lazzo stayed in the Cherry Hill neighborhood it was a small area to search, but also a crowded one. If he wasn’t in any of the bars, where would he be?

  Considering he had just gotten out of prison and had been used to a flashy lifestyle before his conviction, he’d hang out at the fanciest hotel in the area.

  Wolf stubbed the cigar and returned to his car. He drove up the hill and parked on a steep incline, but he was directly across the street from the Excelsior Hotel. The hotel had four exits leading to the street but only one garage. Wolf left the Cadillac, went into the hotel and bought a news magazine. He sat in the lobby and watched for Lazzo. He scanned as many faces as he could, but nobody matched the photo.

  He was halfway through a story on a retiring Israeli colonel who was pregnant when he saw Lazzo and two other goons exit the elevator and mix with the lobby traffic. They left via the main door the one Wolf had entered through. He tossed aside the magazine and went back out to the street. By the time he reached the sidewalk, he saw Lazzo, alone, getting into a car. He didn’t see the two goons. Were they following in another car? He ran across the street, dodging the slow-moving traffic, and reached the Cadillac. He merged onto the street and stayed a few car lengths back from Lazzo’s four-door Infinity. He kept flashing eyes to the rearview mirror watching for the two goons.

  They started going downhill, approaching an intersection. Lazzo’s car breezed through. Wolf cleared half of the intersection when two cars on either side ran the red, and smashed into the Cadillac. The impact jolted Wolf in the seat, his head smacking the side window. His body strained against the seatbelt. All other traffic stopped. The goons had been in their own cars, he realized, as he unbuckled the belt. Then the gunfire started.

  The Cadillac rocked with bullet hits. Wolf dived for the floor, clawing out the Colt. He pushed open the passenger door and shoved out onto the street. The goon on that side was still behind his own car, his automatic weapon smoking. Wolf rolled up and shot him in the head. He rose, pivoting, but only had his gun halfway up when the other goon started to squeeze the trigger.

  Two shots. The goon rocked with hits and fell. Wolf turned to the new arrival that had stepped out of yet another car but quickly lowered the gun.

  “You need to be more careful,” Vince Manning said, a trail of smoke drifting from his revolver. “Come on.”

  Wolf jumped into Manning’s car and the enforcer flipped a U-Turn, ignoring horns, speeding away from the intersection.

  “I got people following Lazzo,” Manning said. “They’ll get him to the cops as agreed.”

  “I take it you don’t like the idea.”

  Manning grunted. “We’re going to your place.”

  “What for?”

  “Because the silent partner is there.”

  Wolf’s stomach tightened as they went down the hall. They stopped at the Chapman apartment.

  Manning took out his gun and tapped the barrel on the door.

  It opened slowly. Melody Chapman seemed very small as she stuck her head out.

  “What is it?”

  “Let us in, Melody,” Wolf said. She stepped back. Wolf and Manning entered. Her leg bumped an end table beside a couch, and she stopped.

  Wolf closed the door.

  Manning said, “Where’s your husband?”

  “What?”

  “Your husband,” Manning said. “Where?”

  “I’m right here, dummy.”

  Cain Chapman came out of the bedroom with an automatic in his hand. “Both of you freeze,” he said.

  “Cain--”

  “Stand by the kitchen, Mel. Now.”

  “But--”

  “Do it, stupid. Now.”

  Melody hustled over to the kitchen but still had a clear view of the front room where the three men were. Her husband had his back to her.

  “You got sloppy, Cain,” Manning said. “Know how easy it was to find out who Lazzo did time with?”

  “Not gonna matter in another few hours,” Chapman said. He held the gun steady.

  Wolf breathed deeply, waiting for a chance to draw. Chapman’s gun and attention did not waver.

  “You got more people coming in?” Wolf said.

  “Lazzo does. He’s the money man.”

  “Of course, he is,” Wolf said. “You don’t have any.”

  “But I got ideas, Wolf. Plenty of them. Gulino should have given me what I earned, not send me back to the minor leagues.”

  Melody dashed from the kitchen to the bedroom.

  “I got ideas of my own,” Manning said
. “They include you on a slab.”

  “You first,” Chapman said.

  “Stop, Cain! Put it down!”

  Melody stood in the bedroom doorway with the revolver Wolf had given her.

  Chapman frowned, turned. He laughed. “Are you kidding me?”

  Wolf moved out of the line of fire. He said, “It’s over, Cain. Drop the gun and let’s go.”

  Cain Chapman kept his eyes on his wife. “This is for grown-ups, stupid.” He started to turn. Melody fired. She fired all six shots and each bullet punched through her husband’s chest. She kept firing once the gun was empty--click, click, click. Her eyes stayed focused on him, wide, animal-like.

  Chapman’s body fell onto the couch, rolled to the floor between the couch and coffee table.

  “That’s self-defense if I ever saw it,” Manning said.

  Wolf went over and pried the gun from her hands.

  Part II

  The Dark

  The Dark

  There are only three rules in this town,

  Never cheat your partner

  Never take more than your share

  And never cross

  WOLF

  “You Mister Wolf?” the black-haired man said as he extended a big hand that looked like somebody had modeled it from marble. His manicured fingernails completed the sculpted look.

  Wolf said, “I’m not Paris Hilton.”

  “Thank the Cosmos for that!” The black-haired man laughed and shook hands with Wolf. “I’m Murray Fulton.”

  “Just call me Wolf.”

  Fulton invited Wolf to sit at a table with an umbrella extending from the middle. Wolf sat. Looking around, he was glad they were out on the patio rather than inside. The back yard featured a pool, a large section dedicated to roses, and a massive smog-free view of the entire city, clear out to the bay. The light breeze touched the back of Wolf’s neck just right; a fly buzzed around in an erratic orbit.

  The black-haired man poured two glasses of sparkling water, handed Wolf a glass. Wolf scanned Fulton’s face, wondering how often he had a Botox shot. His skin was way too smooth for somebody over 50. He kept his real age a secret, as if it mattered, while fostering the image of a high-flying, risk-taking, grab-all-you-can businessman, emerging as a quasi-national celebrity. The public could find Fulton’s cool gray eyes and youthful smile inside the pages of the gossip rags quite often. His Hollywood friends always invited him to their parties, and he flew out in his private jet to oblige them.