by Lee Thomas
“You were his partner,” McGavin said. Lennon nodded. “You have my sympathies. Before and after.”
Lennon took a deep breath and released it loudly. The last thing he needed was lip from a creep he was trying to help. “That mouth is going to cause you trouble, Terry. Why don’t we start again?”
“Because I didn’t kill the fat fuck. He was strangled. What kind of street trash uses a rope? If I wanted someone dead, I’d use my ladies.”
“Your ladies?”
“Guns,” McGavin said. He turned his head and spat a wad of red phlegm on the floor. “I let my ladies do the sweet talkin’. Or I would let them if I were to ever hurt a living soul, which I wouldn’t.”
“Of course not. You’re a good Catholic boy.”
“Indeed true. Saints preserve.” McGavin’s lips twitched up in an oily grimace.
“Here’s the thing, Terry,” Lennon said, leaning on the table. “Detective Conrad kept a bank ledger and he kept an address book. Any guesses whose name I found in them?”
McGavin’s expression didn’t change with the news. He continued to squint and blink.
“Your name, Terry. Your name was in Curt’s ledgers. Now from what I can put together, Detective Conrad did quite a lot for you and Mr. Powell, including a hit on Lonnie Musante.”
At the mention of Musante’s name, McGavin winced. He sniffed blood back into his nose and looked away.
“I was there that night,” Lennon said. “He did the job, framed another man. But you must have known that using Curt was dangerous. After all, he worked for the Italians. If Powell or Moran sniffed that out, they might figure you were playing both sides.”
“You tell good stories,” McGavin said. “You know the one about the cop who went and fucked himself?”
Lennon leaned across the table and slapped the side of McGavin’s head, causing the man to groan. “Pay attention, Terry. I’m telling that story now, and the cop’s name was Curt Conrad, but you’ve got some luck on your side. Neither you nor my late partner will be implicated in the Musante affair. It wouldn’t look good for the department, so you’ll walk free and clear on that one. That should be a big relief.”
“Maybe. If I believed it.”
“Regardless,” Lennon said. He stood and began to pace the room, hoping to stomp his agitation through the soles of his feet. “More good news for you. Since you’re a known associate of Angus Powell and Bugs Moran, the Feds will be coming to whisk you off, and they will have more concern for your well-being than my colleagues do. My guess is, no one here is planning to make that call until morning, and the way things are going, you won’t live through the night—cop killer and all. You give me something I want, and I’ll go make that call right now.”
McGavin’s swollen brows knit. His lips finally closed over the blood-smeared teeth. Lennon had offered the man something important, something crucial. He didn’t expect the offer to put McGavin on his side, but it might clear the way for a conversation.
“You don’t seem too torn up about your partner’s death,” McGavin noted.
“I’m getting around to it,” Lennon said. “I didn’t like the man. He was a slob and he was rude and he was a dog’s hind leg, but we were on the force together a long time. That does something. It takes men beyond issues of like or hate.”
“I didn’t kill him,” McGavin said evenly. “I was with my family all day, and they’ll swear to it in court, even though it won’t change the way things are. I know that. I know how the game is played. You fucks need someone to blame.”
McGavin was right, of course. As with Butch Cardinal, guilt was no longer an issue. The department needed a name for the papers, an ass for the chair. “Maybe you can give us someone else to blame.”
“Not my style.”
Lennon walked around the table and leaned over the prisoner. McGavin peered up at him, harsh light bathing his face. “I can help you, Terry, but you have to give me something.”
“How much?”
“I don’t want money. I need a name.”
“Like I said. Not my style.” McGavin turned away, looked into the corner.
“And like I said, you can’t go up on this one,” Lennon kicked the chair hard to get McGavin’s attention. “I’m not asking about Curt. This is about Musante. Cardinal is going to fry for that one no matter what happens. I’m not happy about that, but there’s not much I can do to change it. So you’ve got a free pass here, Terry. You give me a name, a name I can’t do a damn thing with. I call the Feds. You live to see sunrise.”
“If you can’t do anything with the name, why do you want it?”
“I just want to know.”
“What?”
“Who ordered the Musante hit? Who on your crew is so fucking stupid they’d start a street war over a glorified fortuneteller?”
“Oh, you wouldn’t like that answer,” McGavin said. The bloody grin opened across his face again.
Lennon was finding it harder to keep control of his temper. The guy understood his situation: he was maybe thirty minutes away from getting his brains bashed in. McGavin had to know that. Was he so stupid he’d rather play his tough-guy games than add some years to his life?
“And why wouldn’t I like the answer, Terry?”
“Your partner wasn’t the only one playing both sides, detective.”
“Both sides? Are you saying Impelliteri ordered Musante’s murder?”
“No. But someone from his crew did.” McGavin attempted a shrewd expression that pinched his face, making him look anguished rather than clever. “The guy approached me a few years back. He needed cash, and he had some information. It helped clear certain paths for us. So I’ve kept him on the line ever since. I paid him out of my pocket, knowing Powell would pay off double for the information the guy gave me. A couple of weeks back the guy calls me up and tells me he needs a big favor. Musante was the favor.”
“Did Powell know about this?”
“Hell, no,” McGavin said. He hawked another wad of red phlegm and spat it on the floor. “Powell is like Moran. They think the Italians are a different species—just greasy apes who know how to pull triggers. They won’t make deals with them. But the thing is it’s not about Italians or Irish, and it’s not about Northside or Southside. It’s about money and power. When you’ve been around as long as I have, you figure you’ve got all the power you’re going to get—no way you’re going to be top of the heap. So you settle for the money and whether the money passes through Rome or Dublin it spends the same in Chicago.” Pain brought creases to McGavin’s face. He tried to smile through them. “He used to say that.”
“He?”
“The two-face in Impelliteri’s operation,” McGavin explained. “He was a talker. Fucker could go on for hours when he got an idea in his head. Most of the time he was just ass talking. On this point, though, I happened to agree with him.”
“And he knew you had Conrad on the line?”
“Sure. He liked the idea of having a cop pull the trigger. When he came to me with his plan, I made the arrangements.”
Lennon gave up pacing and returned to his chair. “So Cardinal was his idea?”
McGavin cocked his head to the side. Shrugged.
“Time is running out, Terry. Once my buddies get back from their coffee break, you’re out of my hands.”
“Cardinal was my idea,” McGavin said bitterly. “He was a smug fuck. Came in all cocky, kept his distance like we weren’t good enough for him. Powell just ate it up, acted like he’d gotten himself a big-shot pet. I figured we could do without him.”
Lennon could hear the jealousy in McGavin’s voice. It wasn’t a surprise that a man who’d done nothing of value with his life should get his hair up over a man who’d tried to make a name for himself. The fact the wrestler had hit hard times made it all the easier to dismiss him. So Butch Cardinal had been given a death sentence because he’d rubbed a lowlife thug the wrong way. No genuine slight. Certainly no threat. McGavin simpl
y had no tolerance for anyone he considered better than himself, which to Lennon’s mind must have been a good, long list.
“And Detective Conrad?” Lennon asked.
“It should have been an easy night for him. I already had the wrestler lined up for the fall. He comes in, pops Musante, pops Cardinal in self-defense, plants a gun, neat and tidy.”
“Except Cardinal got away.”
“I did not see that one coming,” McGavin said. He fell silent, shifted his weight in the seat, trying to find a comfortable position in a chair that hadn’t been designed for comfort. Finally, he said, “You ever think that maybe Cardinal is the one who killed your partner? I’d think he’s got more than enough piss in him by now to want payback.”
Lennon shook his head. Cardinal was on the run—might be in Mexico by now. Besides, he looked no more like the man the old lady at Conrad’s building had described than Terry McGavin did.
“I’ll keep him in mind,” Lennon said. “Right now, I want to know the name of your contact on Impelliteri’s crew. I’d like to speak with him.”
“No chance of that.”
“Why not?”
The prisoner’s face was lowered, staring at the table. Even so, Lennon could see his smirk. “He’s dead,” McGavin said.
“That’s convenient for you.”
“In more ways than you know.”
“How so?”
“My contact was Lonnie Musante.” McGavin paused, waiting for a response. His battered lips pulled wide when he caught the look of confusion on Lennon’s face. “He ordered a hit on himself, detective. Said he had the cancer real bad and was on his way out. Said he couldn’t kill himself because of being Catholic and all. Suicide being a mortal sin.”
Lennon needed a moment to comprehend what he’d just been told. He knew Musante was a terminal case with cancer building tumors in his gut. When he’d read the medical report, Lennon had considered bullets a blessing in comparison to the misery the disease promised, but the news stunned him anyway. Lennon leaned back in his chair and searched McGavin’s battered face for signs of deceit but saw only self-satisfaction and amusement.
“Why did he make it so complicated?” Lennon finally asked. “You said it was all his plan, so why did he need someone like Cardinal there?”
“Who knows what a dead man is thinking?”
“Yeah,” Lennon said. He stood from the chair and leaned forward on the table.
“You going to make that call for me?” McGavin asked.
“I am.” Lennon stepped around the table and stood over the man. McGavin craned his neck and looked into the detective’s face. “But I have to knock you around a little.”
“I know,” McGavin said. “Gotta look right for your friends.”
“Something like that.”
“Well, do what you gotta do.”
Lennon landed a fist to McGavin’s jaw, but the punch was weak. Half-hearted. That wasn’t going to work. The wounds needed to be convincing. So he pulled his fist back and gave it another go.
Chapter 21
Human Sacrifice
Hayes and Brand walked up the block and paused outside of the building where their associate, Humphrey Bell, had taken a room. Wind blew angrily over them, racing in great gusts down the street. The apartment house was tall and narrow; its bricks and the veins of mortar between them were nearly black with grime. Two days had passed since the young man had checked in, and while such silences often occurred in the course of an investigation, Humphrey was still being trained in the field, and he was held to stricter guidelines than a seasoned associate. During that time, Hayes and Brand had covered the city, speaking with its degenerates and its criminals, searching for information about the outfit to which Lonnie Musante had been affiliated, but while every gun-toting insect in this city knew Mr. Musante by his unfortunate and comical reputation—his service as Marco Impelliteri’s mystic—no valuable information had surfaced.
“The phone lines have been down,” Mr. Brand said. “The last storm took a good number of them out. He probably didn’t want to leave his post.”
This was the third time his partner had mentioned the downed lines, but both men knew that if Humphrey had wanted to contact them, was able to contact them, he could have left a note at their hotel. Hayes had already pointed this out to Mr. Brand on several occasions, but now he remained silent out of respect for his associate. Mr. Brand had a special affinity for young Humphrey. He had mentored the boy for years, teaching him the history and the application of every weapon in the chambers beneath 213 House. To add to their fraternity, Mr. Brand had begun courting Humphrey’s older sister only the year before, and he was on the verge of proposing marriage to the girl.
Though his life had been troubled since youth, fighting his way through the cruel gutters of Brooklyn with his handicapped arm, Mr. Brand had managed to grow into something of a romantic, and he felt things deeply and carried them silently. Although he rarely allowed his sentiments to escape through word or voice, emotions lived in Brand’s eyes.
“The phone lines,” Hayes said. “I’m sure you’re right.”
“I should have visited him. He’s still in training.”
“And part of that training requires independence. I’m sure Mr. Bell is fine, Mr. Brand. He was instructed to watch for Mr. Cardinal’s return and follow the man if necessary. You have given him excellent instruction over the years. He would never take action on his own. If he’s not in his room, we’ll wait and clarify the proper procedures with him when he returns.”
“Yes,” Brand agreed.
To his sadness, Hayes believed little of what he’d just told his associate. Looking up at the sky, which again wore a blanket of furious gray clouds, Hayes struggled with pessimistic thoughts. Their work rarely brought them into contact with good men, and the days they’d spent in Chicago had done nothing but reinforce Hayes’ disdain for a corroded humanity. He vilified the entire city, though he knew it was no worse than his neighborhood in New York, nor was it worse than the neighborhoods surrounding his. Maybe it was no worse, at least no different, than any bloated city. What bothered Hayes so greatly here was the celebrity afforded to the gangster faction. Chicago’s killers and thieves were heralded, celebrated like movie stars and royalty. Hayes could understand weak men cutting a crooked path through a society, but he could not understand a society that not only accepted such deviation, but also aspired to it with shameless zeal. In this place, this Chicago, all that mattered was power. Commerce was God, and He had a taste for human sacrifice.
“I intend to set that kid straight,” Mr. Brand said, again speaking of Humphrey Bell. “I’ll give him a couple of good knocks in the head if that’s what it takes.”
Hayes tried to chuckle, knowing Mr. Brand would do no such thing, but the fabricated laughter fell on his tongue like ash. He turned to look across the street at the building in which Butch Cardinal had rented a room. It could have been a twin to the building at his back, except it was squatter by two floors.
Unable to put it off any longer, Hayes pivoted on his heel and walked up the stoop. When he opened the door a blast of warm air that smelled of cabbage, garlic, and cat urine washed over his face.
“I’ll bet he met a girl,” Mr. Brand said.
“Then you will have my permission to knock him in the head.”
“I’ll do more than that.”
Hayes fixed a tight smile on his face, listening to Brand’s speculations and threats, which followed him to the third floor of the building. Outside of Humphrey’s room, Hayes knocked on the door and listened, but the only sound was an undulating moan of wind. The noise made him uneasy. It was too cold to leave a window open. He knocked a second time. Mr. Brand nudged him aside and rapped more forcefully. “Mr. Bell,” he barked. Hayes gently tapped his associate on the shoulder and waved him back. Then he removed a four-inch steel pin from his pocket and slid it into the lock. The metal melted and bent, all but disappearing into the mechanism’s hol
e. What remained was a knob, approximately the size of a dime. Hayes turned this and the lock disengaged. Once the newly fashioned key was removed from the hole, it shifted its shape, lengthened and narrowed, until it was again a narrow pin, which went back into Hayes’ pocket.
He threw open the door and was startled by a length of cloth, a blanket, that dropped over the top edge of the door. Freezing air blasted into the room from the open window. Gusts of it animated the simple shade and the white curtains which danced like ghosts. To the left of the window, beside a large console radio was a chair bathed in gloom, and in the chair was Mr. Bell.
Beside him, Mr. Brand emitted a groan so filled with pain it momentarily bested the howls of the wind. Both men stepped cautiously into the room. Mr. Hayes went directly to the bound and tortured body of his associate, while Mr. Brand stomped heavily across the floor to close the window. Observing the door remained open, Mr. Hayes hurried back and closed it before returning to Mr. Bell’s remains.
He noted a number of cuts and bruises on the young man. Crusts of rust-colored scab marred his arms and throat. A gag had been tied so tightly that the skin of Mr. Bell’s cheeks rose in ridges around it. But it was in seeing the eyes, or rather where the eyes should have been, that made sickness blossom in his gut; the sight punched Mr. Hayes and he covered his mouth and he stepped away. Behind him, Mr. Brand paced between the window and the door, his footsteps heavy and brutal on the stained boards. To the window. To the door. He resembled a wild cat that had taken all of the captivity he could endure.
He turned back to the poor young man’s body and winced. All morning, he’d expected to find a sad tableau inside this room, but his imagination had taken him no further than the likelihood of finding Mr. Bell lying on the floor with a gunshot to the head. The level of savagery exhibited in the young man’s treatment would never have occurred to him, and if he were being honest with himself, the fact that someone could perpetrate this kind of violence on the young man terrified Hayes. This wasn’t the clean kill of mob muscle; this was the work of a madman.