by Laird Barron
“Ask me no questions and I’ll not tell you my guys swung by his condo last night and found it empty. He hasn’t shown for his shift at the Knarr. None of the usual riffraff have seen him lately. He must’ve run for the hills after your ‘talk.’ It’s all good. We’ll look high and low. Meatheads like Royal never run far.”
To say this was an ominous sign for Royal would be coy. Unless matters corrected themselves, he’d soon join Morris Oestryke in the Great Hereafter. On the flip side of the coin, I worried—and not for the first time—if I’d erred in letting the guy walk without pressing a lot harder.
“Do me a favor,” I said. “Don’t ice the kid until I get a chance to speak with him one more time. Good heavy, bad heavy, might be our play.”
“Long as you don’t let the fucker take a powder, if you happen to find him first. Chat him up and then turn him over. Deal?”
“Deal. Another thing. The mutilation of Harry’s corpse feels wrong. Why take the hands?”
“Why take the head? The Croatoan is a trophy collector, is why.”
“Yes, but this feels too pat. Any word from your contacts in the police department? Autopsy results, a DNA match? Without dental records or fingerprints, a body could belong to anybody.”
“Hurry up and wait,” he said. “There’s always a backlog of stiffs at the ME’s office. I’m tellin’ you—no way Harry faked his death and picked up the Croatoan’s knife. That’s what you’re implying—Harry iced a patsy in order to pull off a scheme.”
“It occurred to me.”
“I got a talent for judging what’s inside a man. He didn’t have the stomach for this. Believe me, no way is it possible. All I can say is, even fifteen, twenty years ago Harry had already made a lot of connections. People liked him, so they told him stuff. He heard I needed a mechanic for a tricky contract. Came to me and said he could put me in touch with the best of the best; a hitter who went by the name the Croatoan. For a retainer, natch. Thus began a beautiful partnership. Until the treachery and murder.”
“Okay, the basics, then,” I said. “What did the Croatoan do to incur your wrath? The Outfit is normally excited to have highly skilled psychopaths on the payroll.”
“Sure, we love our madmen. Too bad he was also a rat.”
The Family policy on squealing is nonnegotiable. Snitch to the cops and the mob happens to find out half a century later? Grandkids of the offended mafiosos would track you to your rest home and snuff you on your deathbed.
“The Family heard rumors for many years the Feds planted a rat in the organization. We had not a fuckin’ clue as to the dirty bastard’s identity. Coulda been anybody. An unfortunate circumstance for the fellas I ordered whacked to be on the safe side.”
I smiled to be polite. Preventative culling is the mob’s standard operating procedure. Related maxims—dead men tell no tales, never talk, better safe than sorry, don’t sit with your back to the door at an Italian restaurant.
He went on.
“Outta the blue, a piece of vital information landed in my lap. One of our street-level associates confessed to tipping the Feds to a deal. He’d gotten pinched and made the fatal mistake of squealing in exchange for a reduced sentence. Or should I put it, he made the mistake of getting caught—twice.”
“Liability with a capital L,” I said. “How did you catch him?”
“The prick wore a wire. Too bad for him it was Random Stop-and-Frisk Day at Goodfellas HQ. Feds weren’t even getting sound. The transceiver was on the fritz. Ha! Better believe he babbled like a baby in hopes of savin’ his skin. Please don’t solder my toes together! Please don’t give me a Sicilian necktie! Pathetic. His bargaining chip? Punk was cozy with a broad who pushed paper for the FBI. Would you believe they met while he snitched for the Feds? He’d primed the bitch for eighteen months, pumping her for inside dope. She got drunk and blabbed about a ‘weird’ case that had popped up on her supervisor’s radar. Something to do with an old, retired contract killer who’d occasionally informed on the Family in the past. The hitter’s name was Morris Oestryke and he’d faked his death in the ’80s. The Fed boss wanted the report deep-sixed, no reason given.”
“That’s some heavy pillow talk,” I said.
“Real hush-hush deal too. Top secret, eyes-only shit. Almost nobody heard a whisper in the department. Probably embarrassed to be runnin’ such a lowdown dirty scam. Fidelity, bravery, integrity—my ass.”
I could see where this was going. I let him have his moment.
“See,” he said, “the fearless G-men gave the hitter free rein to run amok so long as he tossed them actionable intelligence now and again. This Oestryke character could torture and slaughter all the lowlifes he wanted. If a few capos went to jail, it was worth the trade.”
“Did he actually make any cases? He was merely a hired gun, right?”
“In retrospect, Oestryke made Machiavelli look like a rube. He exerted a weird influence over certain types; collected down-on-their-luck hard cases and put ’em to work. The exact details are sketchy. What I’ve heard is, he used a variety of methods to cultivate his own informants inside the Family. Some he bribed, others he threatened. Disguise and deception were his bread and butter. None of these idiots realized who they were talking to, or that they’d been taken in. For Christ’s sake, he posed as an undercover cop and ‘flipped’ a couple of made guys. Arranged for an accomplice to pose as their counsel and everything. It was a master-level con. Those shitheads were ready to give up their mothers before he got done with them.
“Over fifteen, twenty years, the FBI received detailed info regarding who, what, when, and where in connection with a number of major jobs. Capos in New York and Jersey took a long fall. I won’t mention names. You read the paper, I’m sure you can guess.”
“And for that the Feds ignored his extracurriculars.”
“Sick bastards, our government, huh? The name Oestryke meant nothing to me at first. Then my source spelled it out. He fingered the Croatoan, aka Morris Oestryke, aka take your pick of a dozen noms de plume. He was the spy we’d heard rumors of for years. My jaw hit the floor.”
“Your informant made a compelling argument. It isn’t every day that two and two equals five.”
“Sure did. I had faith in his story since I held a blowtorch idling near the jerk’s toes during our powwow.”
“That must have been a fascinating conversation,” I said. “How is it you weren’t aware that Oestryke and the Croatoan were one and the same prior to this revelation?”
“He’d retired the Oestryke identity when he presumably ‘died’ in ’87 and I didn’t make the connection until I interrogated the stool pigeon. Like I said, Oestryke went by a whole Rolodex of aliases. Frank Smith, Joe Jones, Bob Brown, Donnie Duster, and on and on. Regardless, I’d thought of him as the Croatoan—or Mr. C, to keep it simple. Now you’re tellin’ me whoever this fucker really was, he stole the Oestryke identity too; that he got married and raised a family for deep cover purposes, like a commie mole. There’s no bottom to this pit. Doesn’t surprise me. Shady fuck.”
He lit another cigarette. Below us, the fighters shuffled off the court and a custodian trudged in with a mop and bucket.
“Since the ass end of the ’90s, I hired him for seven or eight jobs. He wasn’t always available, and, in the last decade, he’d disappear for months and years at a stretch. Went off the rails and whacked some transients, is what I heard. Very bad, very sick. Guy had screws loose, no question.”
“You ever have a real conversation?” I said. “Any impressions? Did he mention a partner? A protégé?”
“Heard he used to be a party animal. Times change. We got together twice. Meeting in the flesh wasn’t remotely in his comfort zone. He conducted business through an intermediary or a dead letter drop. Y’know—cloak-and-dagger. Don’t know if he had an understudy or a partner. Never saw him with anybody, for whateve
r that’s worth. As I said, I didn’t learn his real identity, where he lived, nothin’ useful for hunting him to ground. As for all those wild stories? People say he wore a mask, he whistled his victims to sleep, the exotic torture methods, and the rest . . . some of that is one hundred percent, Hand to God the truth. Other parts, I don’t wanna know.”
“Allow me to test my psychic powers,” I said. “The Croatoan goes into quasi-retirement. However, when you received news that your favorite contract hitter smelled of Odor La Rat, you squeezed your mutual pal Harry to set a meet, for old times’ sake, and x’d out the premiere button man of our era.”
He nodded, evidently savoring the recollection.
“Laid an ambush that went off smooth as shit through a goose. Boy, was I nervous, considerin’ who the target was. I capped him with a .22.” Curtis cocked his thumb and forefinger to demonstrate. “Pop-pop to the back of the head. Drove the schmuck to a spot in the Pines and tucked him in. So much for the dreaded Croatoan. I owe Harry. Couldn’t have done it without him.”
“Harry’s wiles were not to be underestimated,” I said. “Oestryke must’ve trusted him implicitly to come out of hiding.”
“Ironic, yeah? Secretive sonofabitch like the Croatoan had friends too. That’s the weak link in the chain for everybody in the life. It’s always a buddy or a broad that does you in. Although, friend is a weak word for the relationship Harry shared with the Croatoan. Lion tamer might be more precise.”
“You have to assume there’s a story in there somewhere; how they met and became amigos.”
“I don’t give a flyin’ fuck at a rollin’ doughnut,” he said. “Harry was his handler and that’s all I needed to know.”
It hit me then, that I’d gotten it backwards. Harold Lee’s special relationship with the Croatoan, not Delia, had opened the doors and afforded him VIP access to pretty girls and exclusive gin joints across the Hudson Valley.
“No chance Harry was Oestryke’s only liaison to the mob,” I said. “He had other connections—low-level criminals with access to the right people. He could’ve switched to suit his aliases and to divert suspicion.”
Curtis nodded.
“Inquiries are under way.”
“He wouldn’t have willingly given up his extremely dangerous friend,” I said. “Except, he didn’t have much choice. He could either play ball or get whacked himself.”
“The sad sack got screwed by fate. He didn’t want to go down as an accomplice to the Croatoan’s rat-fink ways.”
“That’s not what motivated him into selling out Oestryke. There’s loose talk regarding debts.”
“True. His granddaughter was very ill. A chronic condition. The dumb lug personally covered what insurance didn’t. Medical expenses in the USA are fuckin’ obscene.”
“Harry took out a big fat loan from the bank of Marion Curtis.” I swallowed my disgust. Nic Royal had alluded to this very detail during our chat. “I hope you cleared his marker.”
“Well, well, look at the bleedin’ heart on the Māori Menace. Let your heart not be troubled. Harry’s pluckin’ a harp among the angels, and I maintain a fund for his granddaughter’s health and welfare. He earned the consideration. Didn’t cost me nothin’ upfront either. I just told the hospital administrator he was gonna go for a swim in concrete boots if he didn’t play ball. ’Course, Harry wasn’t privy to the details. All he needed to know is that he owed me big.”
“Why would Harry borrow from you and not his bosom buddy?”
“He was desperate, not fuckin’ insane. And anyhow, the Croatoan was a hoarder. It was against that cat’s very nature to part with a red cent of his moola.”
“Oestryke must’ve had a fortune socked away. Any likelihood that Harry had access to the loot after Oestryke’s demise?”
“Fuck yeah, Oestryke was worth a bundle. No way he revealed its location to Harry or any other patsies he had on the string. Some jackass will uncover the dough in a bank vault or a hole in the ground years from now when we’re tits-up. Rubs me raw.”
“As you say”—I nodded toward the goons—“this has been enlightening. Leaves us where we started—somebody who’s read the Croatoan’s playbook is picking up the slack. Worried?”
“Worried enough to bring you in. You understand why this has to stay quiet. Why I’m keeping this a circle of two.”
His secrecy made increasing sense. He’d potentially compromised himself by using the Croatoan’s services on behalf of the Family. Learning of the hitman’s cooperation with the Feds doubtless came as a shock. It mattered not one iota that Curtis would merely relay bad news. The Family had an unpleasant tendency to kill the messenger. Just to be on the safe side.
I tried to organize the puzzle pieces and they kept sliding through my fingers. Solving a mystery is exponentially more difficult when you don’t trust anyone involved, including your own patron.
“There’s a certain amount of kismet involved,” he said.
“Let me stop you right there,” I said. “Kismet doesn’t belong in a capo’s dictionary. Visions of you bumming around California beaches are dancing in my head.”
He smiled a tight smile and the tension loosened a notch.
“I dated a surfer girl when I was a young stud. But what I’m tryin’ to say is, there’s a sense of dark fate intertwined with this Croatoan deal. Sure, Harry made the introductions. Truth is, I inherited the psycho killer. Mr. C did business with the Family long before I entered the picture. The Croatoan was a weird trade secret—the old capos wouldn’t say fuck all about him, except the bogeyman tales; how he did in his victims, and whatnot.”
“Try not to take this the wrong way,” I said. “Are you absolutely, positively sure you finished Oestryke?”
“Sheesh! We may not all be world-famous hitmen, but I know how to cap a guy.”
“Right on. Thanks for the talk.” I stood. “I’ll report when there’s more to say.”
“Yeah? Got a plan?”
“To keep hunting, to keep digging. My best leads are Oestryke, Harry Lee, and Ray Anderson. Who they knew, who they hated, or loved.” There was the lie by omission I alluded to earlier. Delia Labrador and Zircon Corporation flitted on the periphery of this investigation and I meant to bring them into focus.
Curtis let me walk a few steps before he called my name.
“You’re gutsy to saunter in here,” he said. “Unarmed among lions, no less. Climb right up in my grille and call me a liar. Don’t do it again, okay? I’d hate to forget my admiration for your work ethic.”
I smiled.
“I’m not unarmed. Your man at the door missed one.”
Thankfully, he laughed.
“He ain’t made. Break his arm or somethin’ before you leave, will you?”
“Christmas is coming,” I said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Leaves continued to brighten and fall. Hillsides evolved through shades of gold and maple. The north breeze tasted of late autumn in Alaska; brittle as an icicle, except greener and less cruel. I inhaled the wilderness during my dawn jogs. Late mornings, I punched a striking post, or fired a few rounds through my guns. Sighting in the Mossberg and configuring its choke to shape blast patterns was pleasurable. So was the shotgun’s kick.
The agency line buzzed with increasing frequency. Cheating spouses, defrauded business partners, lost lambs—the typical woes of modern society. Some pleas for assistance revolved around slightly more exotic difficulties, such as terrified debtors, gangbangers gone straight and looking to clear their names, and moguls desperate to beef up security due to credible death threats. I took a rain check on several and declined the remainder.
My dance card was full.
Days, I encamped at the office. Aided by my consultants, I located Morris Oestryke’s widow and three kids. Mrs. Oestryke lived in San Francisco at a group home. She hadn’t been c
ompos mentis since the 1990 car accident that killed her eldest son and severed her spinal cord in three places. The middle son died a few years later while laboring at a construction site in Denver. Heart attack.
The youngest son drove a bus in Reno. He told me to piss up a rope. Dad died when I was nine months old. Way too young to remember anything useful. Maybe that’s to the good. Maybe it’s best he passed on before I got to know him. He didn’t answer the multiple follow-up messages I left. Did the FBI find it odd—or, dare we say, suspicious—that Oestryke’s family fell like dominoes within a few short years of his own presumably faked demise? Who could say?
The horrible, yet inescapable, conclusion I bumped into no matter which direction I turned was that Morris Oestryke had coldly and ruthlessly engineered this dead end from the corpses of his own loved ones.
I yearned to clamp my hands around his neck, whether or not he was a moldering corpse.
* * *
—
AS I’D TOLD CURTIS, all I could do was put my head down and keep digging. I nurtured the faint hope that if I talked to enough people, somebody somewhere would divulge a scrap of information and blow the case wide open. Legwork meant going over the same ground time and again, squinting at the same clues from varying angles and praying for a bolt of insight, or plain old luck.
The existence of the Croatoan was bad enough. That he’d been removed from the board and a copycat had assumed his mantle pushed us into deeper darkness. The universe had cracked open to reveal a panoply of new and unpleasant possibilities. She likes to keep us on our toes, Mother Nature. The idea that psychopathy and evil can vector and corrupt in the manner of a disease is among the most heinous propositions my imagination could conceive.
When I informed Lionel of recent developments, his response was to shrug and crack another beer. He’d told me so and didn’t have to remind me of the fact.
I built the crime collage on the wall and sifted through a voluminous list of people who’d even remotely associated with Lee and Anderson. Anderson was known at the local clubs, but in the casual sense and not as a major partygoer. Bookies reported that he’d done most of his gambling (just enough to maintain appearances) from the comfort of his living room and a sports bar in New Paltz. Anderson’s real job involved breaking into places and robbing them blind, so his nights were generally committed.