“Your people run a background check on them?”
“If they have, they haven’t told me anything.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. And I hope this is important. There’s been rumors about a war coming.”
McLeod pricked his ears up. “What kind of war?”
“A couple of the families have been moving towards establishing themselves in the drug world. Up till now, the Dons have been pretty reluctant to get their hands dirty with the stuff. But there’s a new generation who see drugs as a fast way to make quick money. There’re some kingdoms to be carved out in North America—possibly even South America as well.”
“Which families?” McLeod pressed.
“I don’t know. Only that they are based in New York. The Florida families already seem to be hip-deep in the rotten business, and they’ve been getting along fine for a decade now, so they’re probably not directly involved. At least not yet. But if push comes to shove, they won’t be giving up anything willingly.”
“That leaves the dead young man. What could be the connection between New York and Colombia?”
“I can’t tell you ‘cause I haven’t a clue. But I can tell you this: this body you took from the Marta was not a nobody, Mac. I haven’t learned who he was, but I’ll bet you your next paycheck that he was high up in the organization, whichever one he belonged to.”
“I don’t get paid enough to gamble. It’s hard to make ends meet as it is.”
“This conversation never happened, Mac.” The agent had changed tact, indicating an end to this meeting. He simply had nothing more to add to McLeod’s inquiries.
“You know, that’s just the trouble with us, John. We don’t talk enough.” He started to rise.
“Thanks, Mac. Your tab is getting pretty high, you know.”
McLeod allowed a fleeting smile to cross his lips. “I’ll get you released as soon as I have a talk with the DA. When you get out, see if you can pry some information out of your office my way, okay? You people can be slower than molasses at times.”
John shrugged. “Take your time on springing me. The grub’s not too bad for a change. Besides, some punk has been giving me an appreciative eye, and I think a sex change might be good for him. Then I’ll see what I can do about the red tape.”
A message awaited McLeod when he returned to his hotel room to start packing and return to Washington, D.C. It was from David Welsh, Director of Investigations. McLeod made a moue. Welsh was decent enough as a supervisor and a lawman, but he tended to be more politically minded than McLeod had ever thought of becoming.
“Sam,” Welsh greeted over the phone, his voice unctuous. “Just got your report.”
“And?” McLeod said impatiently, knowing that there would be another shoe to drop.
“Just thought I’d pass along that a certain Andrew Prescott isn’t very happy with your investigation.”
“Already?” McLeod was not in the least bit surprised. He had suspected someone’s feathers to be uncomfortably ruffled by the impounding of the Marta. He just did not know who would be doing the complaining and to whom, when the complaint would be made, or the timing of the complaint. He figured he would step out of the limelight and be a spectator for a change. Admittedly, he was a might surprised to see how high up in the Washington, D.C. political circles the ripple effect had carried. Prescott was known as an ardent and successful lobbyist for the pharmaceutical industry, but underground sources had painted him as either dirty or in bed with the Tanelli family of New York. Although nothing could be substantiated, there were rumors afloat alleging that a great deal of laundered money, courtesy of the Tanelli family and others, was bankrolling Prescott’s efforts to promote his particular clients interests to influential Congressmen. McLeod remembered seeing a photo in the newspaper depicting Prescott and a Senator Laughlin from Nevada shaking hands over some innocuous deal.
“What’s his interest in the Marta? There’s nothing in the manifest that should interest him.”
“Don’t count the man out,” Welsh said cryptically. “The man’s an iceberg. The more you see of him, the more you don’t, if you catch my drift.”
“I do.”
“He’s not the type of person you can casually cross without feeling the repercussions.”
McLeod ignored the implications of his superior’s words. There was very little that anyone could threaten him with to back down if he thought he was on the right track.
“When are you going to be back in Washington?”
The Marshal hesitated, his mind assimilating this latest development with the information it had amassed on this case. “I need a couple of more days. I need to tie up a few loose ends here first.”
“Okay. Just keep me informed.”
“Understood.”
“Oh, and one other thing, Sam. Watch your back.”
“I always do. There hasn’t been a White Man born who can sneak up on this Indian.”
“Yeah, well, I just got a feeling about this case. Things could get ugly. Let’s just try to wrap this baby up as quickly as humanly possible so we can move on to something more productive.”
McLeod replaced the receiver in its cradle and stared at the inert telephone for several moments, pondering on whether or not to carry out a plan that had been forming in his mind. ‘Like an iceberg,’ Welsh had said. How about like a jellyfish? You can see what’s on top, and sometimes they can look pretty interesting. But the real intriguing parts—and sometimes dangerous—were the long streamers beneath, full of venom to ensnare the unwary. Yes. A jellyfish. That’s what this case was beginning to resemble. And McLeod did not doubt that when he got to the bottom that it would smell like a beached jellyfish: rotten to the core.
An hour after talking to his superior, McLeod left the Sheraton in a completely different disguise. Wearing a fedora and a slick, shiny suit, he sauntered out the lobby and hailed a cab. From there, he went straight to the airport and purchased a ticket for LaGuardia. Then, he stopped at a pay telephone and dialed a number, one of many retained in his rolodex-like mind.
“Yeah,” a thickly accented masculine voice answered the line.
“Let me talk to Uncle Luigi.”
“How’d you get this line?”
“Listen, you dumb Wop! Tell the Godfather that his nephew Junior is on the line. And if your wife still values your balls, you’ll do it now.”
The man laughed with a grumble. “Sure, Junior. You hold a sec, okay?”
“Junior? Is that you? Come stai!” an older man picked up the telephone, his voice very thick with an Italian accent.
“Hello, Uncle Luigi. Yeah. It’s Junior. I need a favor.”
“You know this line is being bugged.”
“Figures. They just won’t let you alone, will they?”
“You gotta go to the old house, okay? I have a car waiting for you. They bring you here pretty quick. Okay?”
“Understood.” McLeod hung up the receiver. He looked at his watch. The conversation had not been long enough for the Feds to trace the call. A quick glance around told him that no one seemed to be taking notice of him. He headed for the gate.
On the flight to New York, McLeod thought about his Uncle Luigi. He had never been completely sure if he really was part of the family, or how he fitted into the family tree. As a boy, McLeod remembered seeing the man in attendance at every family gathering. The elder man had taken a liking to White Wolf as he approached his senior year, and he reciprocated the attention. After White Wolf had graduated from high school, his Uncle invited him to accompany the elder to Italy, an offer White Wolf readily accepted.
“YOU’RE A BRIGHT boy, Junior,” Uncle Luigi praised the boy. “I want you to work for me.”
“No thanks, Uncle,” White Wolf turned him down in a neutral tone.
“Why? Why not?”
“I don’t like the pension plan?”
“What pension plan?”
“Thirty-six cubic feet of dirt and
a nice headstone.”
Uncle Luigi laughed. “You’re a bright boy! You’re right! Pension plan: she not so good. But the offer will always stand. You got a clean record, and you’re a lot brighter than most of the people who work for me.”
“That’s okay, Uncle. I have nothing against the family, but I don’t like packing heat, and I don’t like having to kill someone unless they deserve killing.”
Uncle Luigi laughed again. “Lots of people need killing.”
“Maybe. But they haven’t done anything to me. I don’t want to start killing people needlessly unless they threaten me. Besides, I might start liking it.”
“We talk about this more later,” Uncle Luigi steered away from the subject. “You see the family. Maybe you think different later on.”
Italy proved to be a different world altogether, and it was an experience that White Wolf would never forget. It was not just the different language, customs, foods, smells, and dress of the Italian people. It was the way of life his Uncle lived and expected to conduct himself in order to survive. After being in the country for only fifteen minutes, White Wolf was convinced that the entire country lived under arms with each major family employing their own private militia.
After clearing customs, White Wolf spotted three men bearing carbines waiting to receive them. These men immediately greeted the Godfather with deep respect and surrounded the pair, remaining highly alert lest someone attempt to hinder or trouble their transit. White Wolf heard his Uncle pass instructions in Italian that he was to be treated as if he were his Uncle’s son. White Wolf was never to be alone but protected at all times. That did not sit well with an Indian whose natural world did not allow for artificial barriers, and he made a mental note to speak to his Uncle about these arrangements.
A large 1940’s vintage American car pulled up to the curb as soon as they exited the airport building, and White Wolf and his Uncle were quickly hustled into the vehicle. The escorts jumped onto the running boards on either side of the car and continued their vigilance against an attack. A second car followed close behind with four more bodyguards armed to the teeth. White Wolf soon realized that the car had been reinforced to make it more impenetrable from assault short of a rocket launched grenade or point-blank discharge of a high-caliber weapon. With this realization, White Wolf wondered if he had made a judgment in error in accompanying his Uncle to this land.
Feeling somewhat trapped by the situation for the moment, he tried to take his mind off this particular predicament and stared out the thick-paned window to take in the sights of the city. Palermo seemed like any other major world metropolis, maybe just a little older, and distinctively clothed in the unique Sicilian culture. When the car stopped at an intersection, he took a special interest in a young woman walking on the sidewalk. Her seductive apparel and manner of walking both attracted and stirred him.
“Hey, hey!” Uncle Luigi rebuked him, waving his right hand in front of him in the negative. “This is not America. You cannot look at any woman. She belongs to someone. You offend that someone by looking. He will wanna kill you, and even I cannot protect you. You wanna woman, you tell your Uncle. I get you a good woman.”
“Yes, Uncle,” he said as he averted his eyes to the front of the car. “I guess I’ve got a lot to learn, huh?”
“You be okay. My boys will take good care of you. You’re a bright boy.”
The car started moving again, and soon they had left the outskirts of the city and were immediately plunged into the rural countryside that had changed either in appearance or character for over a thousand years. They continued down a two-lane road until they were in sight of the family’s estate.
Uncle Luigi’s large, two-story ancestral home looked more like a fortress than a domicile. A six-foot stonewall completely surrounded the villa, separating the house and other buildings by a good fifty feet. Two guards manned the main gate while two pairs of armed men walked the perimeter both inside and outside the compound. They were present to insure no one unbidden or unwelcomed entered the premises or even came close to the property without being challenged. In the past, an armed assault on the family headquarters had been all too common. In a blood feud, an insulted Don was never satisfied with the deaths of a few family members or henchmen. The whole family had to be eradicated from the face of the Earth. Even today, these precautions were still upheld and enforced: the nature of these men’s sense of honor and revenge remained unchanged.
The two cars were waved through the gate. The first car pulled up close to the front steps to allow Uncle Luigi and White Wolf to exit the car. They were immediately greeted by Uncle Luigi’s nephew and two armed bodyguards. Then the car moved towards the garage where the second car had already parked and disgorged its occupants. The nephew warmly welcomed his Uncle with the traditional greeting of an embrace and kisses on both cheeks. White Wolf suffered the indignity of being touched, but he refused to kiss the man.
Inside the house, White Wolf found himself in an opulent world with modern conveniences that few Italian poorer relations could only dream about. In fact, it was more like a palace to him, for he had never experienced such luxury, not that he had not dreamed of owning so many material things much less desiring them. His Indian custom was nomadic, however, and the thought of transporting all this wealth across the Land would have been seen as ridiculous, if not foolish, by the tribe.
“Mamma is getting old. I brought an outhouse indoors. Now she complains it’s too hot!” He laughed at his own joke.
“Your room, she’s upstairs,” Uncle Luigi told White Wolf. “You go. You take a bath. Then we eat. We drink. We talk.”
White Wolf spent a miserable week in Italy. He soon discovered the truth behind the old adage “Even a gilded cage is still a cage.” He couldn’t drive, walk, shop, or go anywhere without a minimum of two escorts. The confinement rubbed uncomfortably contrary to his nature of freedom and open spaces, and he began to chafe at the numerous restrictions on his physical body, which affected his spirit, until the day he could return to the United States.
“So, Junior, what do you think, eh?” Uncle Luigi swept his hands to indicate the opulence of his home. “Nice, uh?”
“Uncle, I can’t tell you how glad you brought me here. But you know that I’m an Indian. You just can’t cage an Indian. I feel like I’m in jail here. You know I can take care of myself on the outside. I need to get out and get away by myself for a while every now and then.”
Uncle Luigi waved the thought aside. “Yes, yes. I have no doubt you can take care all by yourself. But, if one hair on your head should get bruised even, I’d hafta kill ten men. Some of mine; some of theirs.”
“This trip has definitely made up my mind. I can’t join the family. Not the way you want me to. I’m sorry if my decision offends you, and I can’t adequately express my gratitude for all that you have done for and given to me.”
Uncle Luigi nodded understanding. “Don’t worry your head about that. Someday, I hope you change your mind. The offer will always be there.” He pointed at his heart.
THAT WAS NEARLY fifteen years ago, and McLeod never doubted that his Uncle’s offer still stood. But he had chosen a life on the other side of the law, and in his own mind there was no going back. Yes, the White Man’s world had its own restrictions, and his profession invited others to make him a target, but he could escape the confines of this strange world, retreat from the real world whenever he wanted, by himself, and without the worry of looking over his shoulder every step he took.
After disembarking from the airplane and leaving the terminal, he took a cab to the indicated rendezvous house, a brownstone in Old Italy on Long Island. It could be best described as a safehouse for his Uncle’s family. He announced himself to an old, dried-up woman answering the door as “Junior,” and she allowed him to enter without so much a word. She ambled with a gait that belied her apparent age through the house with him in tow and led him to the garage door. She pointed at it, indicating that he wa
s to go through. A black Mercedes with all of the windows darkened except the windshield waited for him along with a driver. McLeod without hesitation climbed into the backseat, and the driver started up the car. The garage door opened at the push of a button, and the car pulled out onto the street.
He was about to enter the wolf’s den.
“YOU ARE NOT afraid. That is good,” the wolf-Medicine Man repeated. “For one so young, to have both courage and alertness, that is a good start. You need to learn patience and endurance, however, to be a true Earth Man. Perhaps you have the endurance—or at least you have begun to understand the concept. But I sense in you that you do not yet have patience, and this, my son, is something that you will have to learn, although it will be painful.”
“I am not afraid of pain,” White Wolf declared defiantly. “I am one of the People.”
“That is good,” the wolf-Medicine Man said. Then he changed tact. “You must be hungry and thirsty.”
The boy shook his head in the negative. “I am cold. That’s all.”
“Come with me.” The tone of the Medicine Man was compelling, and the boy instinctively knew that he could not challenge the spirit’s beckoning. He stood up and watched appraisingly as the spirit resumed its wolf’s shape. He then followed the wolf across the stream and up and around a hill where a den of wolves were lying.
“Remain here with my children,” the wolf instructed. “They will care for you, keep you warm, share their kills, and protect you from the other animals of the woods, including the two-legged kind that are now searching for you.”
White Wolf watched the spirit-wolf walk away and dissipate into the other world, where the spirits resided and watched over the world in service to the Great Spirit, before approaching the other wolves. A she-wolf stood up and took his wrist gently into her mouth and led him into the center of the wolves where two cubs slept fitfully, dreaming of the milk that sustained them from their mother’s teats and the warmth of her hairy body. White Wolf sat down among the wolves who then gathered close around him.
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