The Vendetta

by Thomas Laird

  She sat across from Joe at dinner. They’d had meals together, at least. It was part of that conventional pose that he took, she supposed. But he was there at dinner most of the time.

  “Where’d you go, today?”

  She looked across the long rectangle of the dining room table.

  She didn’t know how to avoid it much longer.

  “The doctor’s.”

  Her hair was still blonde. She was only fifty-three, same age as her husband.

  “What’d he say?”

  “It isn’t good, Joe.”

  He stared at her and dropped his fork noisily onto his plate.

  “What isn’t good?” he demanded.

  He appeared as if he were angry. Vivian knew he didn’t like surprises.

  “I have stage four lung cancer. It’s in my brain and in my liver, too. I’ve got maybe four months, Joe.”

  “No.”

  She didn’t cry.

  “Yes.”

  She sat erect. She was a classy woman. Her elegance was the clincher in the deal for Bertelli back when they were married. There were plenty of broads who looked good and who looked the part of an Outfit wife. But Vivian was better than any of them. She was an aristocrat without a title or fancy breeding, but she was royalty to him. Like JFK’s old lady, except without the Bostonian breeding lines.

  “Four months,” she repeated.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  He slept with his brother’s wife, and yet he felt no shame. Marilyn was not ashamed to stay with him in the same bedroom, either, and she wasn’t worried that the girls, Elizabeth and Morgan, would feel angry that she was with their uncle at night.

  The winter had begun and there were twelve inches of snow on the ground, and Christmas was still two weeks away. There were no tracks outside Johansen’s cabin. The snow was pristine. It was twenty degrees out and it wasn’t going away any time soon, according to the forecast.

  But when the melt came and the roadways were cleared, Mark was headed back to northern Illinois. There was unfinished business.

  She lay with her head on the left side of his chest. She listened to his strong, regular heartbeat, and she wondered why it couldn’t stay as it was forever.

  “Don’t leave,” she whispered.

  His eyes were opened and he was fully awake.

  “I won’t be gone long.”

  “It isn’t necessary. David will still be dead no matter what you do.”

  “I’ll be back before the snow melts.”

  “That could be April. That’s four months.”

  “I have to go.”

  “It doesn’t matter to me, Mark. We’re together. It’s good up here. The girls love their school. They have new friends. What happens if you don’t come back?”

  “There’s money in the bank for you. You’ll be all right. Unless you plan on living more than a century.”

  He smiled over at her but her face didn’t brighten.

  “I want you. Not your money.”

  He kissed her and held her tight.

  “I’ll be back, Marilyn. I told you I’ll be back, and I’ll be back.”

  “The police will be looking for you.”

  “Hell, they already are.”

  She stared at him but he wasn’t smiling, this time.

  “I can’t lose you too.”

  “How many times do I have to say it? I’m really very good at this kind of thing. I’ll come back here long before the melt sets in. The beach will still be out there, and the warm days will return, too. And then I won’t go away again.”

  “Do you mean it?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I love you, Mark. I know it’s crazy. David’s only been gone for a few months. I should feel terrible. But I don’t. I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I know.”

  “But you never said those words to me.”

  “I want to give you more than words.”

  “Say it anyway.”

  “I’ll show it to you. I’ll be back when the winter’s over.”

  She kissed his chest. Then she held him tighter.

  She would have to get up and prepare the girls’ breakfast soon.

  He held her tightly and somehow she couldn’t move away from him.

  *

  He managed to get to the train station in Sawyer. The Amtrak would take him to the Loop in Chicago. The rifle was concealed, in parts, in his suitcase, along with several hundred rounds in ammo. There was a .45 automatic in his shaving kit underneath the toiletries and a few hand towels. The clips were in there, as well.

  If he was searched at the train station, there would be a problem. But there were no cops there, and he boarded the Amtrak without incident. The trip would take several hours, depending on whether the tracks ahead were all cleared, but the board at the station listed no delays. The sun was out and the temperature was supposed to rise into the mid-thirties by afternoon. There would be sufficient melting, and he’d be in Chicago by late afternoon.

  The other bodyguard to the capo Rossi was next. His name was Fortunato. Sounded very Shakespearian—or was it Poe? Mark couldn’t remember. He was self-read. He never paid much attention to literature when he was in high school. He’d done his serious reading in the Army, especially when he was on leave in places like Saigon. Later he had read the classics in Paris and Amsterdam and several places in Southeast Asia that weren’t even on the map. It was the education he’d received from the military other than the education of an assassin. He knew how to figure wind velocity and everything else that affected a long- distance shot. They taught him all about muzzle velocity and killing zones and how in combat you aimed the first volley waist high and the second ankle high to finish them off. He had a degree in death.

  He probably should have felt remorse for all those dead marks, but he couldn’t summon the emotion. It was war or what they called justifiable homicide in the field. None of the targets was innocent, certainly. They all deserved to be under the ground. Johansen never shot an innocent man in all the time he’d been in the Green Berets or when he was a mercenary gun for hire. It was what you told yourself so you could sleep at night, anyway.

  And the first bodyguard, Vince Cabretta, certainly was no choirboy.

  There’d been no pleasure in carving him up the way Mark had. It was just a message to Rossi. And Fortunato would be the second installment of that same communication.

  “You’re third in line.”

  Mark hadn’t written those words down, the last time, but he was sure Rossi could feature what was coming for him down the line. It would be too easy to just pop Benny Bats immediately. It was like putting a dog to sleep. Euthanasia was too good for the Italian. There had to be the anxiety of the wait, the dread of oncoming death. It was what he deserved.

  It was justice.

  David had suffered plenty before they’d asphyxiated him in that plastic bag and then tossed him into the lake. His brother had suffered the death of the boy, Nick Rossi. It was accidental, but you bore that burden the rest of your life even though it wound up being a short life for his brother. Far too short. Then David had to sleep, if he could, with the knowledge that a murdering gangster was coming after you and possibly after your wife and two daughters.

  It must have been unbearable for him after the accident. It was unfortunate that Mark hadn’t been there until it was all over. He might have somehow prevented what those two hired killers did to his brother David.

  It didn’t matter now. Rossi set all these gears into action, and Ben Rossi was about to receive payback. The Outfit captain would be searching for Mark, anyway, so there was nothing the ex-Green Beret could do except torch Rossi before Mark wound up like his brother. And he didn’t put it past the capo that Rossi considered Marilyn and Elizabeth and Morgan unfinished business of his own. You could find anyone if you had the resources and if you wanted to badly enough.

  All this was self-defense. Simple as that. His life or ours, Mark fig
ured. Some might call it revenge. The wops called it the vendetta, the vengeance. Call it whatever you like; whatever was going to happen was necessary. There would be nothing resembling peace for him and Marilyn and the girls until Rossi was dead. He could deal with pursuit by the cops. He’d dealt with it for years, and they hadn’t caught up with him yet.

  And Marilyn and her children didn’t need to fear the police. All of this was on his own shoulders. There was money in the bank for her to raise them until they were old enough to fend for themselves. His line of work was very lucrative, and Mark had been saving to get out of the life eventually. The bank bulged with the profits for killing for hire. He might have already retired except for this intrusion by Ben, Benny Bats, Rossi.

  He was reading Siddhartha when the Amtrak came to a stop in Chicago. He went to Hertz and rented a non-descript Chevy. Then he drove out to the southwest suburb of Oak Lawn and booked a room in the Holiday Inn on 95th Street. Once he was settled in, he got in the rental and headed back to The Green Room, the place where Manny Fortunato and Ben Rossi would certainly be holed up.

  When he pulled up to the curb, it was 11:00 P.M. It was a clear night; no additional snow was forecast. It was brutish cold, however, and the wind swooped inland off the lake from the northeast. It was called ‘The Hawk’ by the inhabitants of the city. It chilled your bones quite literally. Mark wore an old navy pea coat and still the chill invaded his flesh. He didn’t leave the motor running because the exhaust was a tipoff that someone was outside waiting. Fortunato would be sly enough to notice.

  He waited an hour and still no one emerged from The Green Room.

  After 12:30 the simian Manny Fortunato came out the front door, and Rossi followed him close by. Fortunato headed to the Cadillac parked illegally ahead of Mark’s Chevy in a marked no parking zone, and after the two got in, they pulled slowly away from the curb.

  Johansen followed them at a careful distance. They headed back to Rossi’s house in Cicero. When Rossi entered his home, Fortunato left the Cadillac in the side driveway, and then he walked over to his T-Bird at the curb in front of the home, got in, and took off south down the side street.

  Johansen followed Manny at a safe interval, and when they got into four-lane traffic on Cicero Avenue, Mark made sure he was never in the same lane with the Outfit soldier.

  It took only twenty minutes in late night traffic for the squat bodyguard to arrive at his three- flat building. Fortunato occupied the ground floor.

  Johansen let him get inside, and then he observed the light in the front window illuminate. The lamp was behind sheer curtains.

  Mark got out of his vehicle and went to the trunk. He retrieved the .45 auto and a combat knife that looked like a miniature Bowie. Then he closed the trunk gently and quietly and made his way to Fortunato’s front door.

  It was locked. Mark reached into the pea coat’s pocket and retrieved the burglar’s pick. He worked on the lock for about a half minute before the job was finished.

  There was another locked door just inside, and he popped the lock on the next obstacle in less time than the first. There was a short flight of steps leading to Manny’s door, and Mark pressed his ear up against the dark slab of wood. It was a solid piece of lumber, the entry, and he knew it’d be a problem to kick it in.

  He gently inserted the pick and then he manipulated its innards, and when he felt it spring free, he stopped and listened.

  There was no sound.

  Then the light from the front window was extinguished. Mark could see the line of light go black beneath the door.

  He listened again, but nothing was moving inside. The .45 was in his waistband underneath the watch coat. He opened it up in the front and dropped the garment on the floor next to the entry. The mini Bowie was in his right hand as he opened the door quietly with his left.

  He was grabbed by the collar and thrown across the room. It was dark and after he thumped against the carpet he saw and then felt the heel of a boot against his cheek. The blow tossed him on his back once again and the force of the boot stunned him briefly.

  A large paw of a hand gripped him by the throat and pulled him off the floor and then a meaty left fist crashed into his nose and Mark felt cartilage give way and warm blood flow down from his nostrils.

  Fortunato hit him twice more and Johansen heard the crack of his left cheek bone. His knife had been tossed to the floor and he couldn’t see it or anything else except for the dazzling red flashes that erupted all around him from the shock of the powerful shots he’d endured.

  When the squat man hauled back yet again, Mark shot a knee that fully engaged Manny’s crotch and the air blasted out of his mouth and was followed by a burst of spittle. Johansen followed the knee to the balls with a straight thrust to Fortunato’s throat. It caught him in the windpipe and the bodyguard couldn’t breathe.

  Mark wiped his broken noise and then cried out from the pain. Manny was trying to suck in air, but it wasn’t working and he fell to his knees. One hand was on his nuts and the other was at his throat.

  Johansen sent a kick to the kneeling man’s face and the boot crushed his nose and flung Manny Fortunato onto his back. While he was prone, Mark stomped the other man’s face three times and the fight was out of him.

  The ex-sniper hauled his gasping foe up until he had Manny on a chair. It was a straight-backed wooden chair that stood near the couch in the living room.

  Mark went out into the hall and brought his coat inside and then shut the door.

  He heard Fortunato trying to gasp for air. Then he set about strapping him to the straight-backed chair. When he finished, he went into the small kitchen and found a glass and then filled it with water. When he got back to Manny, he placed the glass carefully on the carpet. Next, he strapped Manny’s mouth with the grey tape. It was difficult for him to breathe out of his nose, but there was some air going in and coming out and when Johansen tossed the glassful of liquid into his face the Outfit gunman’s eyes popped wide open.

  Mark turned the lamp in the front window back on. Then he found his Bowie on the carpet near the sofa.

  Fortunato’s eyes popped even wider when he saw the glint on the blade.

  “You’re a hard man, you are. You almost had me on the ropes, Manny. But I do know how to take a punch. And you swing too wildly. You have to make every shot count. And it isn’t a boxing match or a street fight, really.

  “Looks like you broke my nose. That won’t be convenient. I’ll probably have to have it set. But this is nothing compared to what’s about to happen to you. I cut off your partner’s balls—but you probably already know that. You’re in line for some neutering, too.”

  Manny’s wide eyes were likely expressing a plea, but Johansen wasn’t having any of it.

  “You motherfuckers don’t know what mercy is, and I won’t show you any. Not until you stop breathing. You will die, but I’ve got plenty of time. Looks like I’ll have to clean up before I leave.

  “Oh, not you or your floor or anything. I meant me. Can’t go out with my face full of blood, can I? I’ve still got your boss to meet up with. This time he’ll find your remains right here, unless the cops do first. Maybe you’ll stink out the neighbors.”

  Johansen rushed toward the strapped man and slashed his throat. He could hear Manny bleating under the duct tape.

  “Don’t worry. I missed the artery. It looks worse than it feels. The next cuts will bleed you more heavily, but they won’t send you into shock quite yet.

  “I have David’s wife and children with me in a very safe place. The house is registered under a false name and we’re all four living quite anonymously in a small town where no one knows who I am and no one cares. They just think I’m a man with a family who minds his own business and pays his bills and lives a very unassuming life.”

  Mark slashed Manny’s left cheek, this time, and there was more muffled shrieking.

  “You feel how sticky and warm it is?”

  He studied his handiwor
k on the ruined visage.

  “I’m going to peel you like a fucking apple, Manny. One square inch at a time. When your face is gone, I’ll work on your torso until I know you’re dead. You’re a strong guy, though. Your heart likely won’t stop for a long time.

  “You’re going to die by the square inch. How do you like all this revenge shit now, Manny?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “The john’s over there,” Parisi pointed out.

  She clutched her right hand over her mouth and she bolted toward the facility.

  There wasn’t much left of the face.

  “My guy had the same reaction. She shouldn’t feel ashamed,” Lieutenant Stevenson of the Cicero PD told Jimmy.

  “First year on Homicide,” Parisi offered.

  Stevenson tried to smile, but he wasn’t up to it.

  “Very sharp blade, whatever he used.”

  “Yep. Indeed,” Jimmy told the Lieutenant. “Very sharp. Razor-like.”

  Dani returned from the head.“I’m sorry. Reflex.”

  “Nothing you can do about arguing with your gorge,” Jimmy told her.

  “I have to get used to this kind of thing.”

  “You do and I’ll shoot you myself and put you out of your misery.”

  They zipped up the body bag. The sound made her flinch.

  “You’ll never get used to that particular sound either.”

  She looked up and met his eyes.

  “Are they killing each other off?” she asked.

  Stevenson walked away from the two Chicago Homicide detectives.

  “We ought to be getting extra pay from Cicero. They know this piece of shit was one of our persons of interest with the Johansen thing. I think someone got these two perpetrators and next is Rossi, the guy who made the call.”

  “You don’t think it was someone from the Outfit?” she queried.

  “Not with all this mutilation. They would have just shot him once in the base of the skull with a .22 short and then got the hell out of here. Whoever did this did it with extreme malice. This was something personal.”