The Avenger

by Matthew Blood

  “Let's get it and see. Goddamn it, man!” exploded Wayne. “I'm in a hurry. I got to be through the Tunnel and into Jersey in half an hour. That's why I had to work it this way. Where you got it?”

  The sight of so much money mesmerized Poppy McMooney. He pushed himself erect and said thickly, “Right upstairs. I got me a room here.”

  Wayne nodded with satisfaction and said, “Fine.” He followed Poppy out the rear and up a flight of stairs to the two small rooms above. Poppy carefully unlocked an expensive Yale lock and opened one of the doors. He flipped on a ceiling light and Wayne gave him a shove that sent him staggering to his knees on the floor.

  He jerked out a startled “What the hell?” scrambling to his feet and whirling to see Wayne pulling the door shut and turning to face him.

  All trace of amiability had departed from Wayne's face now that he was alone in a closed room with the peddler. His left hand was bunched in his coat pocket and his voice was glacial. “I just want one thing from you, and it isn't dope.”

  “Yeah?” snarled Poppy.

  Wayne said, “Yeah. I'm not a dick. I don't give one goddamn about you and your stinking racket of peddling to school kids. I'm on my way to see Hake Derr, and you're the next step up.”

  “Hake Derr?” wheezed Poppy.

  “Don't tell me you never heard of him.”

  “Sure, I heard of Hake.” Poppy was rapidly regaining his self-assurance. “But he's one of the top men. I never had no dealings with him.”

  “Where do you get your stuff?”

  Poppy made a vague gesture. “I took all the stock off a guy. Don't even know his name. He's outta business now.”

  Morgan Wayne stepped in swiftly with a backhanded blow across the mouth that sent the peddler to the floor again. He lifted himself on one elbow, spitting teeth and snarling venomously, “That's new bridgework, goddamn it. I paid—”

  “I'm just getting started,” Wayne interrupted placidly. He kicked at Poppy McMooney, bent forward swiftly as the peddler went down again, caught fine thin wrist and twisted it behind his back, and lifted him up by that leverage while a screech of anguish started from Poppy's mouth.

  Wayne's other hand slapped the sound back down his throat before it really got started. He shook his head and explained matter-of-factly, “I don't mind killing you except that it would delay matters for me. Who's the highest man in the racket you can reach this time of night?”

  “I tell you I don't know—” Blood was streaming from Poppy's broken nose and a two-inch slit in his cheek. He gagged over the words as Wayne's fingers closed relentlessly about his scrawny neck to hold him upright while he put a steady upward pressure on the arm twisted behind Poppy's back.

  “I can't tell what I don't know. My God, you'll break my arm. For gossake...”

  Morgan Wayne laughed thinly in his face. “Of course I'll break your arm. And then the other one. After that, I'll twist them both off and beat you to death with them. Don't you think I'd enjoy that?”

  The absolutely horrible thing to Poppy was the stranger's complete lack of emotion as he spoke and put increasing pressure on the tortured arm. His voice was controlled and pleasant and thoughtful, and carried the deadly ring of sincere conviction.

  “I'd like to take every dope peddler in New York in my two hands and break him into little pieces,” Wayne went on. “Every despicable hunk of scum in human form who deals in the degradation of children for profit. Unfortunately, that's a large chore for one man, but please don't get the idea I want you to talk fast. The longer you hold out, the better I like it.”

  He inexorably tightened the pressure on Poppy's windpipe as he spoke, cutting off any sound except a faint whimpering moan while the man's arm moved upward between his shoulder blades inch by inch and the pain caused his eyes to protrude while face and body writhed and contorted in Wayne's merciless grasp.

  There was an abrupt, splintering crack as the elbow ligaments gave way. Wayne let go with both hands and stepped back dispassionately to consider the groaning figure that flopped on the floor in front of him.

  “That's just one arm. I'm getting to Hake Derr tonight and you're pointing the finger that'll put me on my way. Perhaps I'd better start on the fingers of the other hand,” he went on meditatively. “One by one they'll last longer.” He stopped to grab the wrist of the unbroken arm, but Poppy jerked it away from him, moaning and slobbering:

  “No, no. Don't hurt me no more. I'll tell yuh anything. Mother of God, don't touch me again.”

  “I doubt whether she'll pay much attention to you,” Wayne said coldly. “Start talking and make it good.”

  Poppy McMooney was huddled on the floor with his face in his hands. He began sputtering out words intermingled with sobs and Wayne leaned close to hear more clearly. He heard “Vito” and “The Barber,” and a light showed in the coldness of his blue eyes for the first time since he had opened the door to Lois Elling's bedroom. By sheer chance, he had struck it lucky when the boy led him to Poppy McMooney. Most of the pushers like Poppy dealt only with one small dealer who was, in turn, supplied by a little bigger dealer, who in turn...

  But Poppy was evidently a pusher who was very much on the way up. Vito “The Barber” Saietta was a name that Morgan Wayne recognized. One of the half-dozen big-shot middlemen in the city who bought raw heroin direct from the syndicate, processed it, and passed it on to distributors. It was one chance in a thousand that a peddler of Poppy's type would have any contact with The Barber.

  Wayne dragged the cringing man to his feet and flung him into a chair. He said, “Stop your goddamned sniveling and talk so I can understand you. Where do I find Vito?”

  Tears and blood were coursing down Poppy's face. His left arm was grotesquely twisted and he leaned far forward to hold it pressed tightly against his body in the angle between torso and limbs. He avoided Wayne's gaze and moaned:

  “No. I dunno nothin'. I said that to make you stop. I just heard him mentioned.”

  “Do we have to start this all over again?” Wayne asked wearily. “You'll give me The Barber, or you'll die right here. Slow... and messy.”

  “But they'll kill me. I swear I—”

  “And I'll kill you if you don't. It's a tough spot to be in,” Wayne agreed unemotionally. “Make up your mind fast, because I can't wait.”

  Poppy knew this strangely inhuman man meant it. In the depths of his soul, he knew this was no bluff. His broken arm told him that, if Wayne's eyes and his voice weren't convincing enough.

  “Near Columbus Circle,” he grated through tightly set teeth. “I dunno the exact address. There's a barbershop an' he lives upstairs. I wasn't there but once.”

  “You're going again tonight.” Wayne caught him by his good arm and jerked him roughly erect.

  “My God, no! I'll give you the address, but if they ever find out—”

  “They'll bump you. I know. Come on with me.” Wayne shoved him toward the door.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Vito Saietta was an old Unione Siciliano man. A dependable and unimaginative worker, he had progressed upward in the dreaded organization through the years and through many phases of lawlessness to his present enviable and comparatively safe position as an independent purchaser of raw heroin smuggled in from South America, which he cut with milk sugar and sold at wholesale to gross himself a comfortable $40,000 per kilo. Not having to cut Uncle Sam in on income taxes, Vito netted himself a very comfortable living even though a large percentage of his take did have to go out in bribes to various higher-ups in the police department and persons with political influence.

  He was known throughout the trade as The Barber, and the nickname was accompanied by a sly grin when used by old-timers who knew the circumstances under which it had been bestowed.

  Vito Saietta actually was a barber in the beginning, and he still maintained his dingy one-man shop in the basement of the building in which he lived near Columbus Circle. But Vito didn't work in the shop now except on very, very ra
re occasions. Long ago, before he had become a prosperous businessman respected by his associates and envied by those who accepted a share of his dirty profits to allow him to stay in business—before all that had come about, Vito had been an excellent craftsman and a very hard toiler at his chosen trade.

  His small shop was admirably situated for the purpose it served. One went down a flight of concrete steps from the sidewalk to a wooden door with a faded and inconspicuous sign above: “Vito's Shop.” One opened the door, if it were not locked, and entered a six-by-eight cubbyhole to be greeted pleasantly by the beaming and bright-eyed proprietor. If the customer simply requested a haircut or shave or both, his wants were attended to with neatness and dispatch and he was sent on his way with no reason to suspect the more important business that was sometimes transacted in the tiny shop.

  But if the customer were a stranger and knocked twice on the door before entering, and then told Vito, “Enrico [or Pugs or Mickey—the names changed from year to year owing to the inevitable turnover in the Unione Siciliano hierarchy] sent me here to get a shave,” then Vito would beam more happily and his small eyes would glisten with a certain liquid warmth, for he was proud of his art with the razor and of the special treatment he accorded these favored customers.

  As the man settled himself in the chair, Vito unobtrusively slipped the heavy bolt on the inside of the wooden door to assure the needed privacy and carefully spread a heavy towel over the front of the customer while inquiring gravely about the health of his good friend Enrico (or Pugs or Mickey)..

  Then there was a special razor, carefully honed and stropped and kept in a velvet-lined case, which was lifted down with pride and placed ready at hand, the hot towel squeezed out and spread with care across the customer's face, and then the one swift movement of the razor across the exposed throat that was Vito's pride and his trade-mark.

  There was never any fuss or bother about Vito's killings, and scarcely a single drop of blood escaped the two towels so strategically located to absorb the flow. There was a door at the back of the shop thatled out into the furnace room, where the body could safely remain until evening, when a truck pulled up in the alley to receive it—and weeks later the body would turn up in a vacant lot somewhere in the Bronx or Queens.

  That's how Vito had come to be known as The Barber, though few people today knew the real story behind the nickname. And it was on only very particular occasions, now, that anyone was sent to Vito “for a shave,” because it had to be arranged beforehand so that Vito would be in the shop and waiting for the victim.

  But Vito didn't mind the scarcity of these occasions now. He was an older man and content to turn the more energetic aspects of the trade over to younger men. He had his memories of past pleasures to live with him; he had his thriving business, which he conducted zealously and well from the first-floor apartment directly above the barbershop; he had his pet goldfish and his comfortable, old-country wife, Rosa, who cooked his favorite dishes for him and stayed unquestioningly in the kitchen when he conducted his business in the front room.

  Tonight Vito was at home, as usual. He anticipated a quiet evening with no business interruptions and was in his undershirt and slippers. The pleasantly pungent odors oforegano, tomato sauce, and red peppers drifted out through an open door from the kitchen. All was peace in The Barber's well-ordered world. He puffed composedly on a short, blackened pipe as he shuffled about from one to another of the dozen round, old-fashioned bowls of plump goldfish that stood on low tables about the room. Each bowl had a miniature Italian castle inside and the fish could swim lazily in and out through the doors and windows. He was giving them their supper of prepared fish food, and he stood contentedly by each bowl after dropping a spoonful in, watching the fish dart about and suck the food in greedily as it filtered down through the water to them.

  There was a buzz from the outside bell. Vito lifted shaggy black brows in surprise and took the stubby pipe from his mouth. He was expecting no callers tonight. If it was a business matter, there would be a short pause, then two short buzzes, another pause, and then a single long buzz.

  His eyebrows lifted higher when two buzzes came after a brief pause. The only possibility was that one of the half-dozen large peddlers to whom Vito sold direct as a side line and for added profits had had a sudden large turnover and unexpectedly needed additional supplies. When the final long buzz sounded, Vito put down his box of fish food and wiped his hands on the front of his undershirt, moving on stumpy legs to the door to press the button releasing the outside catch. As he did so, the door to the kitchen was closed firmly from the other side. Vito nodded with satisfaction. Rosa had heard the signal, and like any obedient wife had closed the door so as not to disturb whatever business transactions were to be conducted. The door would remain closed until Vito himself opened it.

  He heard the outer door open and footsteps coming down the hall to his door. He opened it and saw two men standing there. One was tall and thin and had a wool scarf around his neck and was holding it bunched up over his face so only his eyes showed over the scarf. The eyes were glazed with fright and with desperate and silent appeal as Vito met them. He vaguely recognized the man as a peddler with whom he had occasional dealings.

  The other man was big and bareheaded. He wore a white suit and sport shoes, white shirt and black tie. All were of exceptional quality. Vito had been in the big money long enough to recognize quality, though he had never paid more than $3995 for a suit in his life. The man's features were square and placid, as was the faint smile on his strong mouth. Only the eyes weren't placid. They were blue and hot. Somehow, you don't expect blue eyes to be hot. These eyes were hot with menace. And the heavy gun in the man's left hand was menacing, too.

  Vito moved back a careful step or two without saying anything. The blood was pulsing through his temples, but he took a steady drag on his pipe and let none of his inner alarm show through. He was an old-timer who had survived more than his share of gang feuds and realignments by always being quick to sense the winning side and to shift to it faster than most. Right now, his one definite reaction was that the big man looked like a fellow Vito would like to have on his side.

  The thin man turned to his companion and spoke in a curiously thick voice through the bunched-up scarf. “I done it, see? Can I beat it?”

  The big man nodded and said casually, “Sure. Beat it.” He did not take his eyes from Vito's face as the other hurried away. He followed Vito inside and glanced approvingly about the empty, shabby room. “Nobody else around?”

  “Only my Rosa in the kitchen.” Vito bobbed his bald head toward the closed door. He shuffled away and seated himself quietly in a rocking chair, folding stubby-fingered hands in his lap. Vito was good at waiting.

  His caller dropped the gun into a side pocket. He said, “I'm Morgan Wayne.”

  Vito said, “So?” He looked down into the bowl of his pipe and poked a forefinger in to press the hot ashes down so it would draw better.

  Wayne said, “I've got to see Hake Derr tonight.”

  Vito said nothing.

  Wayne moved across the room to stand close to Vito. He thrust both hands into his trousers pockets and rocked back on his heels. His eyes were slitted but his face remained coolly impassive. “You're going to tell me where to find him, Vito.”

  Still Vito said nothing. He rocked placidly back and forth in the old-fashioned chair, his hands clasped in front of his round belly.

  Wayne knew The Barber by reputation. He didn't believe the tactics he had used on Poppy would work on Vito. He glanced calculatingly about the room and noted the twelve round fishbowls with the beautifully wrought Italian castles inside and the plump goldfish swimming lazily about. He moved aside and looked down into one bowl with interest, saying over his shoulder, “Pretty things, aren't they?”

  “You like fish?”

  “Crazy about them. You too?”

  “They are good friends,” said Vito stolidly.

  Wayne reached o
ne big hand down into the water while Vito watched him with bulging eyes. There were three fish in the bowl. They weren't afraid of his hand in the water. They were accustomed, Wayne thought, to having Vito reach down and touch them.

  He cupped one in his fingers without difficulty, pulled it dripping from the bowl, and turned about so Vito could see him.

  He bit the head of the goldfish off with one crunch of strong teeth and began chewing on it.

  Vito came out of his chair sputtering Italian expletives. Morgan Wayne held the quivering and headless body of the goldfish out to him and said thickly, “Have a bite yourself. I just like the heads.”

  The Barber made a lunge forward, as crazed with anger and horror as a father witnessing his child being torn limb from limb by wild animals.

  Wayne laughed and flung the body of the goldfish in his face, tripping him as he did so, and jerking his own head aside to spit out the distasteful morsel from his mouth without Vito's seeing him.

  Vito got to his knees with tears of supplication streaming down his fat face. “Please, you must not,” he gasped. “So innocent, the fish! To eat them alive!”

  “Very tasty,” said Wayne, giving a final munch and pretending to gulp down a big swallow. “You must have three or four dozen of them in all these bowls. Fat and well fed, too.” He cupped his hands together and turned to another of the bowls eagerly.

  Vito scrambled to his feet and got in front of him. “For the love of our Saviour, no,” he whimpered. “This Hake Derr. Why do you want to see him?”

  “Maybe to make a deal.” Wayne paused. “Maybe I'm taking over, Vito. I guess you've heard he loused up his big deal this afternoon.”