Don of the Dead

by Casey Daniels

  Ella might have kept on talking. I'm not exactly sure. Whatever she said didn't penetrate the buzzing inside my head.

  Albert Vigniolli? Goon #2? He'd been there?

  I grabbed for Ella's arm and held on tight.

  "What did he say?" I asked.

  "Him? You mean… not this one." She looked after Quinn again. "You mean the other one?"

  "Yeah. The big guy with the ponytail. Did he leave me a message?"

  "He did. Only… well, it didn't make a whole lot of sense. Let's see if I can get this right… " She squeezed her eyes shut, thinking. "Oh, that's it!" She opened her eyes and smiled. "He said just to tell you that he'd stopped in and that even though he knows where you live, he didn't want to bother you at home. He said to tell you that he's been thinking about you. And that he'll see you very soon. He said when he does, he's bringing a big surprise."

  Something told me it wasn't going to be the Prize Patrol.

  Chapter 10

  As it turned out, I didn't need Quinn's help after all.

  I had my own personal Deep Throat.

  Gus had hung around the Scarpetti compound long after I left, listening and (no doubt) reliving the old glory days. When he finally popped back to the cemetery the afternoon of the day both Quinn and Albert Vigniolli paid me a visit, I asked him about the project Rudy had mentioned in passing, the one Quinn refused to discuss. Lucky for me, Gus was ready, willing, and able to share.

  Three days later we stood side by side on the walk in front of The Family Place, a retirement home with an exclusive list of residents and a strict policy of not accepting new applicants.

  If anybody knew about Gus's death, it would be the men who lived there. Except for a couple who were dead, a couple more in prison, one who had retired to Florida, and another who was a permanent resident in the psych ward of a local hospital, the men inside that house were all that was left of what used to be Gus's inner circle. His crew. The made guys who made sure that the hits just kept on comin'.

  I shook the thought aside and looked where Gus was looking, at the white three-story house. It was newly built but in Victorian style, a rambling structure complete with green shutters, a wraparound porch, and window boxes chock-full of purple and yellow pansies that bobbed in a stiff breeze.

  All-American respectability in a good neighborhood. The house was situated on a bluff that overlooked Lake Erie. To one side of it, there was a park. On the other, a sweep of lawn and beyond that, an Art Deco mansion in the midst of a major revamping. There was a team of workers installing new windows. And a vaguely familiar-looking dark-colored car in the driveway.

  "I gotta tell you, I'm real proud of Rudy." Gus's eyes sparkled. "Sure, he collects art glass. And he did make a pass at you. For that, I cannot forgive him. But I raised him right. He understands the value of family. Imagine him taking care of the guys like this."

  "Unless the guys took care of you."

  "Are you starting with that again?" Gus's top lip curled but he hardly spared me a look. He was still studying the house. It was an overcast day and a cold mist hung at the roofline and in the branches of the two huge oaks that framed the front porch. Beyond the house, I could see the lake. Whitecaps rolled in from Canada.

  I was huddled in a chartreuse peacoat that I should have been able to put away weeks before. But, hey, it was Cleveland and only the end of April. I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering partly from the temperature and mostly because I'd been shivering since I'd heard about Goon #2's promise to pay me a visit.

  So far, so good. No sign of Albert. And believe me, I'd been looking.

  Over my shoulder any time I went out.

  Under my bed and in the closets every time I stayed in.

  I wasn't taking any chances.

  Even in broad daylight, I glanced around. The sidewalk in both directions was empty. There wasn't much traffic on the street, either. Looked like Gus and I were the only ones dumb enough to be out on a day that raw.

  "So what are you waiting for?" he asked me. "I want you to meet the fellas."

  They were fellas, all right.

  Goodfellas. Retired or not.

  I told myself not to forget it.

  Once we were inside the spacious entryway with its hardwood floors and thick Oriental carpets, I shrugged out of my coat. I handed it to the young man who introduced himself as Joe and said he looked after the needs of the residents of The Family Place. Joe pointed me down a long, airy hallway and toward the open double doors that led into the great room. I paused on the threshold, getting my bearings.

  The room was furnished with a plush couch in muted shades of burgundy and mission-style tables that were sparkling clean. There were four leather recliners and reading lamps in front of a stone fireplace that was on one wall, and on the other three, floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over a wide deck. At the center of the deck and facing the lake were broad wooden steps that led down to a strip of beach.

  Prime real estate and a view to die for.

  Something told me the irony was not lost on Rudy.

  There were four men inside the room. Three of them were playing cards at a table on my left and the fourth was seated in front of a wide-screen plasma TV that was on too loud and turned to the History Channel. All Hitler, all the time. That day was no exception.

  "That's No Shoes, Benny Marzano." Gus pointed toward the man in front of the TV and I saw that Benny was in a wheelchair. "He had a lot more hair the last time I saw him."

  "And the others?" I asked the question under my breath, my teeth clenched, my lips barely moving. I knew how lucky I was to get past the front door of The Family Place. I didn't need to blow this chance by looking crazy. "Who are they?"

  Gus peered into the room. "That's Johnny Vitale dealing," he said and I studied the man he pointed out. Though he was close to eighty, Johnny was still imposing. He had broad shoulders and hair the color of cold metal. He was wearing stretchy old man jeans and a gray T-shirt that showed off muscles that were still beefy, even if they weren't bulging. His face was heavily wrinkled and his hands shook when he dealt the cards.

  The others…

  My gaze went around the table as Gus narrated. "That's got to be the Pounder," he said, squinting toward the man who sat, stoop-shouldered, with his back to the door. "I'd know him anywhere. The other guy… " His gaze moved to the Pounder's left. "That there's the Weasel, Nick Trivilagetti. He looks lousy."

  "He looks old. You'd look old, too, if you weren't dead."

  "One of the advantages of dying young." Gus raised his chin and twirled his pinky ring. "I get to be this good-looking for all eternity."

  I wasn't about to argue the point.

  "So… " Johnny spoke up, never once glancing away from his cards. "You this Pepper Martin who called last week? This woman who said she was—"

  "Writing a book. That's me." Even though no one was paying attention, I brandished my red leather portfolio as if it was all the proof they needed of my credentials. "I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice. It's nice to meet you. All of you."

  "You think?" Pounder choked out the words along with a smoker's cough. He looked at the cards in his hand before he glanced over his shoulder at me. Except for a couple of stray curls, my hair was pulled back into a ponytail and for that day's meeting, I had chosen a brown pantsuit and a modest white blouse. It was apparently not modest enough. The Pounder looked at my chest and smiled. "Say, sweetheart, what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"

  At my side, Gus shook his head, disgusted. "Always the ladies' man."

  Not with lines like that.

  I kept the thought to myself. As inappropriate as it was, Pounder's comment gave me a perfect opening. I smiled right back and took another couple steps closer to the card table.

  "What I'm doing is collecting information. About Gus Scarpetti."

  "Who?" There was a commercial on and without the distraction of tanks and guns, Benny No Shoes had just noticed me.
He squinted and looked from me to the card players. His voice was almost as loud as the television. "Who is she talking about?"

  Johnny Vitale tossed five dollars into the pot at the center of the table. "The Pope." He spoke as loud as Benny did. "She wants to know about Don Scarpetti, buonanima."

  "That means, 'God rest his soul,'" Gus whispered in my ear.

  I slanted him a look that told him I didn't need any distractions and made a mental note to tell him that I also didn't need any help. Not about things like that. I'd spent the entire weekend boning up for that meeting. I knew at least that little bit of mobspeak.

  The Weasel threw his cards down on the table. "Why would a girl care about Don Scarpetti?"

  I didn't bother to explain about the book again. There was an empty chair at the table and I sat down. "He had a fascinating life," I said. "The story will make for a blockbusting book."

  Pounder took another drag on the cigarette he had balanced between two nicotine-stained fingers. He laughed and coughed before he tossed down his cards, too, and Johnny scooped up the money from the table. "Yeah, blockbusting. That's us. 'Cept we're not blockbusting, we're ball busting!"

  The others laughed and I smiled. Might as well go along with the pack.

  "I'm sure your stories are very colorful."

  "And you expect us… " Johnny's eyes were dark and as steady as a heat-seeking missile. His look went right through me. "You expect us to tell you all about Don Scarpetti's life."

  "I… well… I… " Because I didn't know what else to do or how to keep these men from noticing that my hands were shaking, I flipped open my portfolio and took out a pen. I clicked it open, ready to take notes. "Actually, I know a whole lot about Gus's life. It's his death I'd like to learn more about."

  "What's that?" Benny No Shoes must have picked up on something I said because he wheeled around and came closer. "You're writing about how Don Scarpetti died?"

  "What can you tell me about it?"

  "Nothing." My question was for Benny but the answer came from Johnny. "Ain't nothing to say."

  "But who—?"

  Johnny swept one large hand over the table, collecting the cards. "It was the FBI that had him hit. It was the cops. It was some punk trying to make a name for himself. It sure the hell wasn't anybody in this room, so why are you bothering us?"

  "Then what about Victor LaGanza?" After what Rudy had told me, it was a long shot, but it didn't hurt to double-check. "Do you think he had anything to do with it?"

  Johnny glared at me. "It ain't smart to disrespect Mr. LaGanza," he said. He tapped the cards into a neat pile. "After all these years, what does it matter, anyway?"

  "It don't matter. Not to you. You're not in this chair." Benny rolled nearer. "He's not in this chair," he said to me, raising his voice, convinced that if he couldn't hear me, I couldn't hear him, either. "He's not the one who got shot."

  "You mean outside Lucia's?" I vaguely remembered something in the newspaper accounts of Gus's death, a mention of Benny Marzano and that he'd been wounded. I hadn't realized how serious it was. I never bothered to look into it. "You've been paralyzed since—"

  "Thirty years." Benny was a beady-eyed man with yellow skin pulled tight across his face, so paper thin I could see the network of veins just below the surface. He was hunkered in gray sweatpants, a green turtleneck, and a polar fleece jacket. Even with all the layers and the plaid blanket draped over his shoulders, he shivered. "If I ever get my hands on the son of a bitch who—"

  "It don't matter. Not anymore." Johnny's voice cut across Benny's.

  "But it does." I twinkled at Johnny. "For my book. And for my book… " I turned in my seat so that I was facing Benny. "What do you remember about that night?"

  Benny didn't have to think about it. Then again, I suppose the fact that he left Lucia's on his own two feet and hadn't used them since pretty much meant that night was firmly etched in his memory.

  "We was done with dinner," Benny said, "and Don Scarpetti, he wanted to go over to Saluto's. You know, that bar what used to be over there on the corner near the church. We were headed that way—"

  "Not to your car?" I don't know why it seemed important, I only knew I had to ask.

  "Nah." Benny shook his head, and when the blanket around his shoulders drooped, he tugged it back in place. "It was close. We were gonna walk. We were waiting to cross the street when the car drove by."

  "The one the shooter was in. Did you see who it was?"

  "If he did, he would'a told the cops." Johnny shuffled the cards. His hands were big. His fingers were thick and in them, the cards looked small and fragile.

  "What about the car, then?" I asked Benny. "What can you tell me about it?"

  "It was green." Benny nodded. "Not new. You know, one of those kinds of cars the kids used to hot rod around in. I told the cops. They said they never found no car like it."

  "They never looked." Johnny slapped the deck of cards onto the table and crossed his arms over his broad chest. The tone of his voice made it clear that the conversation was over. "The cops never cared about Don Scarpetti. And you shouldn't, either. What's done is done and nothing's going to bring the old don back. We don't need some little girl asking questions or digging up the past. We was told you were here to talk about—"

  "How generous Rudy the Cootie is. How he keeps this place going. What an upstanding kind of guy he is." I should have known I wouldn't have gotten past the front door without Rudy's permission and under his rules. I flicked my portfolio closed, ready to call it a day.

  Until I remembered what Gus had once said about bargaining chips.

  Right now, the only thing I had going for me was all that homework I'd done all weekend long.

  "For all your talk of respect and Gus Scarpetti, buonanima… " I used the same reverent tone Johnny had used when he spoke the word. "I would think you'd want to find out who burned him. Maybe that's the only way the old don will ever rest in peace."

  Johnny's voice came out like a growl. "How dare you talk about the boss that way?"

  "It's the whole karma thing, you know?" I shrugged like it was no big deal. "Let's face it, you guys might have been the enforcers, but Gus was the boss. He ran the show. It was his decision who got made. It was his decision who got whacked. He got points from all the Family businesses. You know, the shakedowns and the shylocking and the pump and dumps. He got a big taste from the bookmaking, too, and because of it all, he was a wealthy man, and he lived like a king. Makes you think of the old saying, doesn't it? Col tempo la foglia di gelso diventa seta."

  I gave them a moment to decipher my not-so-perfect Italian.

  "Time and patience change the leaf to satin. That's what it means, right? But no time is going to change this reality, and if you think I'm gonna buy a that, then you're a bunch of jamokes. You know it I and I know it, Gus Scarpetti died like he lived. With blood on his hands."

  Benny's face went ashen as opposed to Johnny's, which turned a shade that matched the wine-colored couch nearby. I didn't bother to look at the other two men. I didn't have to. The Pounder was busy hacking up a lung and the Weasel's voice split the air.

  "You can't prove that," he said. "Nobody can."

  He was wrong.

  One person could. One very dead person.

  I looked toward the couch where Gus was sitting and hoped he got the message. If I was going to find out anything from these four men, I needed to establish that I knew what I was talking about. I needed to prove that I wasn't a dilettante, a mobster wannabe looking to garner some vicarious thrills from the stories of a few of the old Mustache Petes.

  I needed it all. And I needed it immediately.

  Lucky for me, Gus realized it, too.

  "Tell them… " He squeezed his eyes shut, thinking, and in one stomach-turning moment, I realized he wasn't trying to remember if he'd ever actually killed someone. He was trying to pick out which one he was willing to talk about.

  When he looked my way again, his eyes w
ere flat, remorseless. "Tell them you know about Tommy Two Toes."

  "Tommy Two Toes." As mob nicknames went, this one was even more ridiculous than usual, and I would have laughed when I repeated it if not for the fact that the second the words were out of my mouth, the room went dead quiet.

  Except for the TV. The narrator was still droning on about Axis war plans when Johnny hit the Off button on the remote.

  Now the silence was complete. The quiet was ripped by the sound of Pounder's chair when he scraped back from the table and left the room. And the squeaking of the Weasel's sneakers against the floor when he beat feet, too.

  "You can't pin what happened to Tommy on Don Scarpetti," Benny said, and it was hard to tell if the convulsive movement of his shoulders meant he was shrugging or shivering. "Must'a been close to forty years ago that Tommy got whacked. Ain't no way anybody cares no more. And you, writing about Don Scarpetti. You should know he can't ever be connected to that. Don Scarpetti, he didn't never—"

  Johnny stood, effectively silencing Benny.

  "This meeting is over," Johnny said.

  "Just like that?" I couldn't believe my lousy luck. Even with the inside track, I couldn't get to first base with this bunch. "But I told you. I know about Tommy. Doesn't that prove that I've done my research and know what I'm talking about? Doesn't it get me anything?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about," Johnny said. He looked toward Benny. "Nobody here knows what you're talking about."

  And me? I knew a losing cause when I saw one.

  At the same time I wondered what I'd said to hit such a nerve, I headed for the door, where Joe appeared as if by magic. He handed me my coat.

  I guess all that research I'd done over the weekend gave me a kick like adrenaline and the sudden urge to prove that I wasn't a little girl and I wasn't a dabbler. After all, these guys and I had something in common. They once worked for the boss who was now my boss.

  As for the Brooklyn accent… well, I'm not exactly sure where that came from, I only know I sounded mighty tough when I left with a parting shot.