“Ok, I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m going to stay with my parents tonight. Mom is a little shaken up,” Mary said as she joined her parents.
Duke nodded at Mary’s dad, Mike Crosby. They came from two different worlds, but the incident last summer had brought them a little closer together and he tolerated Duke enough to allow the detective to date his daughter. Duke and Mike nodded to each other as the Crosby family walked away.
Duke reported to one of the many officers taking statements. He gave a complete recount of the events that had happened and realized he hadn’t actually seen the shooting take place. Everything had happened so fast that even a mind like his had a tough time slowing down the events.
As the officer was finishing up with his statement, Duke could see the mayor’s assistant getting medical attention. The young man seemed like he was fine, but he’d probably gotten pistol-whipped from behind. He seemed pretty distraught over the incident, trying to push away the medical worker. The cop in Duke wanted to quickly go over and question him, but he was trying to fight the urge.
“One smoke couldn’t hurt,” he thought to himself with a smile.
Duke walked over to the medical staging area where the mayor’s assistant was being helped. “Sorry about your boss. A real shame what happened here today. Smoke?” Duke asked as he took out his pack of Luckys.
Still holding the back of his head, the young man welcomed the cigarette. Duke took out his Zippo, but it refused to light. He shook it a few times, but to no avail. “Damn thing.”
The young man pulled out a box of matches from his pocket and lit his cigarette. He threw them to Duke. “Keep ‘em. I don’t normally smoke,” he said, still shaken up. “I’m Leo, Leo Scagnetti. I’ve known Morris since his days as an assistant DA back in Chicago.”
“You guys came here together, huh?” Duke nonchalantly asked, trying to play more friend then interrogator.
“Yup, the Swansons would come down here for vacation every year and fell in love with it. Next thing you know, he resigned his seat in Chicago and moved shop down here. We never dreamt he would end up mayor just 10 years later. Things just seemed to line up for him with the unfortunate events this past summer.”
“Well, he was the Charleston County Solicitor. He did a hell of a job cleaning up that office. I would think that played a pretty big role,” Duke said.
“Come on, Mr. Dempsey. You’re a native. You know that if it wasn’t for the slayings this past summer, Morris would’ve never had a shot. He’s the first outsider Charleston has ever elected as mayor.”
Duke knew the kid had a point. Southerners had a lot of pride, and nominating a Yankee in a Deep South state like South Carolina was a big deal. Duke had only met Mayor Swanson in passing a few times, besides the meeting they’d had about the award ceremony. It had been short and sweet, but that was how Swanson was.
To be honest, the only thing Duke had taken from the meeting was that Swanson was a big White Sox fan. His office looked more like a teenager’s room than the mayor of Charleston. Granted, it was still a very nice office, and the memorabilia was framed in the finest wood to match the décor. Directly behind where the mayor usually sat was the Chicago Tribune front page from when the White Sox had won the World Series in 1917 against the New York Giants.
Duke wasn’t the biggest fan of baseball these days, but when he was 19 he’d followed every statistic he could in The Post. Duke had made the mistake of asking the question, “What about the Cubs?” Duke didn’t remember the exact words the mayor had used, but it was pretty evident that people from the South Side of Chicago weren’t big fans of the team that called Wrigley Field their home.
“At least we got the bastard. I’ll be pretty interested to hear what he has to say. I didn’t recognize the guy, but I was a little busy knocking his lights out during our introduction,” Duke said as he rubbed his aching hand.
“I would’ve loved to see that. You know, he liked you, Duke. There were a lot of people against giving you this award, but he fought them like a bulldog. Fitting he went out doing what he thought was right, despite ruffling a few feathers.”
“I guess Mayor Swanson and I had a lot more in common than I thought. I never voted, but I liked his tough talk. I just wasn’t sure if he was the real deal or not. I’m not big on politics these days,” Duke said as he took a final drag of his cigarette and flung it onto the ground.
“Yeah, I understand. He came on as solicitor right after you got the boot. He never went into details, but I know he thought the whole thing was shady.”
Duke gave Leo his card before leaving him to the medical staff. He needed to get back to the office and check on his long-time secretary, Margo. He figured the news had reached her by now and she would be pretty shaken up.
Duke took a moment and looked around Marion Square as if he was trying to take a mental picture. The stage where Johnny and Mickey were standing over Mayor Swanson, the sidewalk where Captain Slate and Commissioner Derflinger were speaking to the press corps, and an officer questioning a member of the high school marching band all came into view. He shook his head at the realization that this scene was the first public assassination Charleston had ever witnessed.
Chapter 3 – Casino Noche
“It’s done,” the man said on the phone. Click.
“Take this away,” the old man in a bathing suit and robe said to the young Cuban cabana boy.
The boy immediately took the rotary phone that sat on the silver serving tray. Only a few special members of the Hotel Sevilla were afforded the luxury of using the poolside phone, and Benny Bertucci fell into that group. Benny simply looked over at his man standing a few feet away and nodded.
This man was much younger than Benny, and stuck out wearing a white suit and black sunglasses poolside. He was not there for the sun and relaxation that the Hotel Sevilla afforded. The man in the white suit possessed a specific skill set that was very useful to Benny, and he was loyal. Loyalty, above all, was what the Bertucci Family sought after, and many had failed to live up to expectations. Most of those were permanent fixtures at the bottom of the beautiful turquoise blue waters that lined the white sandy beaches of Havana.
The loyal man immediately took off and headed toward the hotel entrance.
Benny Bertucci removed his robe, revealing his overweight and aging frame. It wasn’t an appealing sight, but nobody dared to stare in his direction. Benny was a man who had a reputation that he’d spent a lifetime strengthening. He had garnered a certain respect which was forged from fear. He thought of himself as a frontiersman, cultivating new lands. Havana, Cuba was prime for cultivating. Benny sat back on his lounge chair and lit his Hoyo de Monterrey cigar.
“Today is going to be a good day,” he said out loud to himself.
The Hotel Sevilla was one of the first-ever luxury hotels ever built in Havana. It nestled in the heart of the entertainment district and was one of the most striking buildings in the city. Originally built in 1908, the four-story structure had an extravagant Moorish design. Every window was an arch with exquisite Spanish adornment. It hadn’t been until 1924, when it had come under new ownership, that a ten-story wing had been added. It was built with the more modern flair of the time, but still complimented the original design.
The central portion of the beautiful hotel had just finished an extensive construction with an addition that would afford a new experience at the hotel. It was Mr. Bertucci’s addition, and in his mind, was going to lay the foundation for a new Havana. Casino Noche was a state-of-the-art casino which was going to take over most of the gambling in Havana. The island country had never seen anything like it. There was a headliner flown in every weekend, and the bands were second to none. Benny had been given this role because of his work in Vegas, but he knew there was no room for failure. Nothing was going to get in the way.
The man in the white suit arrived in Room 735 and entered with his key. It was one of the biggest rooms on the floor and had a full bar, which he requ
ested be stocked continuously. He grabbed himself a rocks glass and poured a double. Before moving down to Havana, he’d been a straight whiskey guy, but something about the rum down south shocked his taste buds. He took a sip and picked up the phone.
“Operador, Charleston South Carolina. Tres tres ocho siete dos,” he said as well as he could with his Chicago accent.
“Un momento,” the operator said back. After a little pause, he was patched through and the phone began to ring.
Billy Carbone hadn’t known Spanish before moving to Cuba, but he was a quick study. It hadn’t taken him long to pick up the essentials. He’d spent many late nights getting free lessons from the cocktail waitresses in the casino.
“Yes,” the voice said.
“It’s Billy. It’s done.”
“What about the other problem?” the voice asked.
“We’re handling it, but the target is out of the picture,” Billy said.
“This mission had two parts, both important. The second part is probably more important than the first. If that ledger falls into the wrong hands, then we all go down. I don’t go down. You understand what I am saying!” the voice said, getting more agitated with each syllable.
“Yes, I understand,” Carbone said.
William “Billy” Carbone might have been low on the food chain, but he was not used to people talking down to him. It was something he didn’t like, but he knew he had to bear it. When you got into a racket like his, there was only one response to all orders. The second you questioned an order was the day you became an order.
“Tell Benny I want to know the moment you get the ledger back.”
“Will do.”
“And tell him to lay off the fucking mojitos. They’re saucing up his brain,” the voice said before hammering down the phone.
Carbone slammed the phone and finished his rum in one big swig. Down in Cuba, Benny was the man, but Cuba was just a small piece of the pie. Billy knew if they didn’t get the ledger back, Benny and Billy would be lounging underneath the turquoise ocean with a lot of the goons they’d already put there.
He finished another drink and wandered down to the casino before meeting with his boss. He looked up at the huge crystal chandeliers that lined the ceilings of Casino Noche as he walked by the poker tables. Business was booming and each table was packed. Men were smoking stogies while drinking some of Cuba’s finest spirits as they sat around their respective poker tables. All the high rollers were itching to give up their money, while their women were in their best dresses or their poolside attire. These lined the slot machines, dumping copious amounts of their husband's money in them. The sounds of live jazz were almost drowned out by the dinging slot machines. He headed toward the back of the casino and down a hallway where a huge guard stood watch.
Mr. Carbone had never been a gambler and liked to control his destiny. It was what made him so good at his job. He never left anything up to chance and had a disdain for people that did.
Billy walked up to the 6’4, 300 lb. guard, who instantly straightened up when he saw Mr. Carbone. Despite the size of the guard, Carbone intimidated the hell out of him. Billy’s reputation preceded him, and rightfully so. Many scary people worked for Bertucci but none scarier than the man in the white suit.
“Twenty-five full carts today, Mr. Carbone,” the bodyguard said.
He knew full carts meant lots of money in the count room. He knocked on the huge vault-like door, a small slit in the door opened, and two eyes peered out. The slit instantly closed, then the door unlocked and slowly opened.
“Hello, sir,” an older gentleman said.
“I hear business is good today,” Billy said.
“Yes, sir. Now that the casino is in full swing, we may need more counters.”
The count room was the most guarded and secure spot on the premises. There were armed guards outside and inside. The room was completely white, which made it easy to spot anything that might have fallen on the floor. The walls, the floors, the chairs, and even the safe were stark white. The clothing the counters and room guards wore were white as well. None of the clothing had pockets and every dollar was accounted for. If the casino was the heart of The Hotel Sevilla, then the cash that flowed through it was the blood.
“You got the numbers for me? I’m about to head up to Mr. Bertucci’s office,” Carbone said to the elder gentleman that opened the door.
“Yes, sir. They don’t include the cash from the cart that just came in,” he said to Billy as he handed him the day’s count.
“It’ll do.” He took the paper and placed it in his inside jacket pocket without even looking at it.
Carbone took a quick look around to show his presence, then left the count room and headed up to Mr. Bertucci’s office. When they’d come to Havana, there hadn’t been much order on the island. Everybody had been scrounging for scraps, and nobody’d had the vision to put it all together. Lucky Luciano had visited the island back in ‘35 to get a feel for how things were run down there. He’d gone back to Chicago with some valuable information and a connection.
Colonel Fulgencio Batista was the Chief of the Cuban Armed Forces, and had a lust for power, a lust that the family thought they could use to their benefit. Through Batista, they were able to hook up with the owners of the Hotel Sevilla and set up shop. Once Batista saw the amount of money a mutual partnership could make him, the rest was easy. He wanted money and he wanted to be President, two things the powers in Chicago could easily make happen.
“So, everybody happy?” Bertucci asked as Carbone walked in.
Bertucci was still smoking the same cigar he’d begun poolside. To the pleasure of Carbone, he had swapped out his pool gear for a gray suit and white oxford shirt, minus the tie. Mr. Bertucci wore ties for most meetings, but he usually went without, due to the heat and humidity of Cuba.
“They won’t be happy until we get the ledger. Too many people exposed right now.”
“There was another slip up as well. The shooter got snatched,” Bertucci said.
“No. Not a chance. We had the whole thing worked out. If he’d stuck to the plan, there’s no way he got hung up,” Carbone said as he moved to the mini bar in the corner of the office. He grabbed two glasses and poured two rums on the rocks.
“I don’t care what you think you had worked out. There was an obstacle you didn’t plan for and he got pinched. Don’t worry about it. It’s being handled,” Bertucci said as he took the rum from Billy. He took a sip and paused. “We need you to make the trip to Charleston. A plane is getting fueled up as we speak. Someone is there now trying to clean up the mess, but we need you as insurance. This can’t get fucked up.”
“What about the girl?”
“She’ll be taken care of. Your only mission is that ledger.”
Carbone smiled and tapped the side of his torso where his infamous nickel-plated Beretta M35 sat snuggly in its holster. The nickel-plated gun had been a present he’d received from Bertucci after a very important job a few years back. It was specially made in Italy and it was the only one of its kind. Carbone had gotten an engraving on the white pearl handle that simply read ‘1 Corinthians 15:26.’ Despite his line of work, he was a very religious man, and had grown up going to church with his mother. At one point he’d thought he wanted to be a priest, but those goals had drastically changed, due to a few unforeseen circumstances.
His new path warranted a more aggressive approach to life. Now, William Carbone thought of himself on the other side of the coin in the tug of war between good and evil. He felt the Bible passage was his calling. ‘The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.’ Carbone had accepted the role of Death and refused to relinquish it until God deemed it so. He was to be the last enemy and the last soul collected.
Chapter 4 – Go Home
“Don't let it go to your head, hero. You’re way behind on your cases,” the old grumpy secretary said as Duke walked in.
Margo had been with Duke since he’d opened his offi
ce, and those who didn’t know better would think she ran the place. By her response, Duke could see the news hadn’t made its way to her yet.
“Mayor Swanson was murdered,” Duke said as he slowly walked past Margo’s desk and into his office. He took off his jacket and didn’t even bother to hang it up. He just laid it on his old oak desk and sat in his leather chair. Margo immediately stopped the filing she was doing and followed him into his office.
“What do you mean he was murdered?” Margo had a confused look on her face. She was a religious woman and put her faith into God instead of politics. She never voted in elections or took sides when it came to politics, but hearing the mayor was murdered threw the old girl for a loop.
Duke grabbed the bottle of Evan Williams and a glass out of his bottom drawer. He gave himself a generous pour and took a long sip.
“During the ceremony, somebody shot him from behind. I didn’t even see it coming. Nobody saw it coming,” Duke said as he took another pull off his bourbon.
“Oh, my goodness. That is unbelievable. All those families with children watching. His family watching,” Margo said, as she quickly gave the sign of the cross.
That hit Duke funny. He didn’t remember seeing Swanson’s family at the ceremony. They would’ve sat with the mayor in the dignitary's section, or at the very least in the first row from the stage. He had a wife and a young boy. Duke had never met them, but they were in almost every newspaper photograph the mayor had, and the ceremony would’ve been on the front-page.
“I don’t think his family was there, but it’s something this city certainly didn’t need. At least they got the guy in custody,” Duke said.
“You have anything to do with that?”
Duke held up his right hand with the fresh bruises. “I may have helped.”
“Since the streets seem to be safe again, I’m going to head down to St. Patrick’s to see if they need anything,” Margo said as she exited Duke’s office.
The Holy City Hustle: A Duke Dempsey Mystery Page 2