"You sail it home or you swim and push it."
"I have all this work piled up."
"Sailor, the work will be there forever. You miss this day, you can never get it back!"
"There's something else. I know that your last name is Marcello."
"So?"
"So your father is Manny 'The Mover' Marcello."
"What's that got to do with anything?"
He was quiet.
"You can at least have the courtesy to insult me to my face. Don't be a coward, Johnny. Let's have lunch and we'll get this all talked out. I'll be there in ten minutes. Meet me in front of your office, okay?"
Johnny hung up the phone. He had sworn he would not see her again. She was Mafia. What in hell was he doing? He would talk and ride around a little, tell her he was not going to see her anymore and get out of the car. Quick and simple.
A half hour later, they sat on a blanket on the grass at Harbor Island watching the sailboats skimming over the big San Diego bay. A Navy destroyer powered silently down channel toward the sea two miles away.
It had not been simple.
She had on a low-cut white blouse and a billowing Hawaiian print skirt and she looked like an angel. As soon as he got in the car she kissed him and told him she could explain everything. Before he knew it he was helping her spread out the picnic lunch.
"Johnny, I am not what my father is. That Mafia crap is nonsense anyway. My father is a businessman. You damn gringos wouldn't know a Mafia hood from a Sicilian olive-oil merchant."
She grinned at him. "Damn, I wish we were alone somewhere!" She reached over and caught his hand.
"No, Angela, I'm only here to talk, to tell you why I'm not going to see you anymore."
"You don't really want to get rid of me, Johnny. You said you liked me, that I was beautiful. And I am rich. Want me to buy you a sailboat, that thirty-seven footer? I could."
"No, I don't want a sailboat. Angela, the Mafia caused three members of my family to die."
He held up his hand when she moved toward him.
"No. No more. I know you're a Mafia princess. Someone who works for your father beat up a friend of mine, almost killed him. Right now I'm caught up in a situation where I can't do anything about it. But at least. I don't have to be seen with the daughter of the man who ordered the beating."
She still had a smile on her face, still trying. Johnny Bolan Gray stood up and walked away. He hoped he would never see the girl again.
* * *
Karl Darlow eased the Flying Fool around the last buoy into the commercial basin and slid her to a gentle landing at his spot off the H & M pier. He and Poke had taken a test run, and he felt good. His chest pains were almost gone. The scars on his chest were not quite healed, but the flesh was firm. They had done some trolling for big yellows and found a few, but he was not ready yet to pole them over the side. They had the small catch in boxes ready for the dock. Poke would handle that.
Karl wanted to get back to Lewy's bar and tell his friends that he was back in action. Hell, he'd make them all buy a round. Besides, the run had made him thirsty.
Inside the dockside bar, Karl's friends were happy to see him and the drinks were flowing freely. The drunker the men got, the taller the fish stories became.
"You see some damn strange things out fishing. Hey, I tell you about the rust-bucket freighter I saw?" Karl put both hands over his face and peeked through his fingers. "Damn, not suppose to talk about it, but what the hell, you guys my buddies. This damn freighter makes a meet with a powerboat, little twenty-four footer, and they take something on board. Not more than five miles off San Diego here. Got to be smuggling something. Coast Guard can't search every sport boat and private gig that comes into the bay. Hell, think what musta been in them boxes!"
Karl suddenly fell silent. He shook his head and pushed his glass away. "Got to go fellas. If my daughter and her boyfriend find out I've been drinking, I'll be in one heap of trouble."
Karl stood up and with as much dignity as he could, headed for the door. He made it, only hitting one shoulder on the casing as he stepped into the early afternoon sunshine.
Now where did he leave his pickup? He saw it on the street three cars down. When he got there a man was sitting in the driver's seat.
"Boys said I should take you home, Karl. Give me your keys."
"Huh? Oh, yeah, probab… probably right." He finally found the keys in his pocket and dropped them into the big man's hands. Karl stared at the guy, but was not sure who he was. Something about the hulking shoulders seemed familiar but he couldn't pin it down.
Karl leaned back in the seat. "Damn nice… boys do this. They pay you?"
"No, Karl. We're just your buddies, us fishermen got to stick together, right?"
"Damn nice."
The man started the pickup and shifted into gear.
Karl shook his head to clear it. He knew he should have cut off the booze, but he was having a good time with the boys. Maybe he had said too much. Too much about that damned rust-bucket freighter! He stared at the man driving.
The driver looked back at him. "You all right? You look a little sick."
"Need to stop," Karl said, trying to get his brain in gear. "Feeling sick." He looked out the window. "Hey, this ain't the way to my place!"
"No kidding," the driver said.
"Stop!" Karl said. Fear had sobered him up fast.
"Not a chance."
Karl lunged at him. It did not matter now, a car wreck or a slug in the back of the head. This way he would have a chance.
The pickup was on Rosecrans Boulevard, a four-lane road leading to the end of Point Loma. Karl slammed into the driver, who tugged the wheel to the left, narrowly missing a sedan. He steadied the car in the left lane before it crossed the center line.
The Mafia man shoved Karl back with his right forearm, then hit him with a backhanded fist that drove Karl to the far door. A.45 appeared in the driver's hand, the snout pointed at Karl.
"You want to buy it right here, old man? You move once more and I drill you! Now sit still or I'll blow you away."
Karl sat back in the seat. He had to think. He was frightened and confused. He tried his pockets. A penknife with folding blade. Useless. Knife? Slowly he let his hand move to his belt on his right side. The sheath hung there, and the eight-inch filleting knife nestled inside it.
Karl shifted his weight. Keep talking. He loosened the knife with his right hand as the driver turned of Rosecrans and held it beside his leg out of sight.
"Who are you? What do you want of me?"
The man shrugged. He headed up Canon Street, which led to Catalina and out to the end of Point Loma and the old lighthouse and observation area.
Karl waited. There would be a better time.
"Where we going?"
"Where does it look like we're going?"
Karl was quiet. There was not much of an opportunity to surprise the goon. He had the.45 in his right hand, steering with his left. Karl might get halfway across the seat. The blade would have to go through his side and all the way to his heart. Slim chance.
Wait.
Karl watched Point Loma and the land mass he had seen for years from below. He usually did not notice all the white grave markers in the military cemetery. Thousands of them. It was still light. Maybe four o'clock.
The pickup wound up the hill to the end of the road on Point Loma. The driver turned into the lower parking lot near the observation building and parked near some brush where a trail led away to the rim. There were no other cars in this lot and only a few in the lot above, nearer to the center.
"You do exactly as I say, old man. Now get out on this side."
Karl huddled at his side of the seat.
"Come on, grandpa, get over here." The killer had stepped out of the pickup, and Karl began edging across the seat. He moved slowly, keeping the blade under his right thigh and out of sight. At the door, Karl looked up.
"I'm dizzy. Give me a hand or
I'll fall."
"Who cares?"
"Hell, you gonna have to carry me." Karl rested on the edge of the seat, his hand gripping the handle of the filleting knife.
The goon took a step toward the car. Karl lunged outward. He thrust the knife ahead of him, locked his wrist and elbow and drove toward the guy's chest. The blade punctured the jacket, grated across a rib and drove inward.
The Mafia snuff man screamed and staggered. Karl pushed off the edge of the seat, driving the big man backward until he stumbled. The thin-bladed, razor-sharp filleting knife sank to the hilt as the two men tumbled to the paved parking lot. The man stared at the knife handle growing from his chest. Blood seeped from his mouth. Then he lifted the.45 and before Karl had time to roll away the Mafia soldier shot Karl Darlow in the belly.
He pitched away from the hoodlum, clutching at the big hole in his bowels.
Karl struggled up to one elbow. His gut hurt, burned like it was on fire. The Mafia goon lifted the.45 again, but Karl used all his remaining strength and kicked the weapon out of the killer's hand. It tumbled out of reach.
At that moment a car drove into the parking lot. Doors slammed and a couple in their twenties laughed and talked as they ran toward the trail leading up to the center.
Karl looked up and for a moment thought he saw Sandy and Johnny. Then he knew it was someone else.
"Holy motha!" the youth said as he saw the two men, a knife handle protruding from the younger man's chest, the old guy gripping his stomach, his fingers dripping blood. The girl hung back but the man edged closer.
"Help me!" Karl said weakly.
The boy knelt beside him.
"Get… help," Karl said.
The young man turned to his girlfriend. "Kathy! Run up to the center and tell them to call the paramedics and the police! Two men are hurt bad, one shot, one stabbed. Run!"
The girl left, eyes wide, terror etching her pretty young face.
The stranger removed his Windbreaker and placed it under Karl's head.
Karl sighed. It did not hurt so much anymore.
"The… Mafia goon?" Karl asked.
"He sure looks dead to me. He's Mafia?"
"Hit man," Karl replied, grimacing. A thin trickle of blood escaped through his lips. "Said he would drive me home in my rig. Then pulled that gun and drove my pickup up here."
"Please don't try to talk. The paramedics will be here soon."
Karl blinked in the sunshine. He felt weak. He was thinking about his boat. How it would be a good season once his chest healed a little more. Felt damn good to be out there on the water again today.
He loved to fish more than anything. Fishing had been his whole life.
A jolting, searing pain slammed through his body and Karl gritted his teeth.
"Steady. Help's on the way," the young man said. "What's your name?"
"Karl."
"Karl, just try to breathe slow and easy. You'll make it."
"Don't think so. That.45 cut a big hole in my gut."
"These paramedics are great," the boy said. His voice broke and tears tracked down his cheeks.
Karl took a big breath. It did not matter anymore. He felt as if he was dreaming. The voices around him kept filtering in and out of his consciousness. He wanted to say hello to the crowd, to smile and wave at them, but he knew he could not.
He heard a siren. Medics coming. Too late. He looked up and realized the sun was still shining. For a moment a dark shadow passed over him. It felt cold. Strange, he had been sweating a moment before.
The shadow came back.
Karl saw two white-coated figures kneeling next to him.
They looked at the boy who held Karl's head.
"Look at Karl first, I think the other one's dead. Karl's got a.45 round in his belly."
Karl heard the anxiety in the medic's voice as someone fumbled to unbutton his shirt and trousers.
There was no hurry. Karl could tell them that. Only he was not sure he could talk. He could see them, the worried faces. The pretty girl who came first was at the edge of the crowd. She was crying. Karl looked up at the youth who held him.
"Thanks," Karl said, his voice only a whisper. The young man heard and nodded, his youthful tears coming freely now.
The medics checked the hoodlum and put a blanket over him covering his face.
Two police cars rolled into the parking lot. Karl had not heard the sirens. He saw the red lights blinking. Slowly he realized he could not hear anything. Lips moved but he heard nothing. The light faded again, then came back. He blinked and saw the paramedic's lips move.
Briefly Karl thought about Sandy. He hated like hell to leave her, but Johnny would take care of her.
For a moment Karl felt as if he was floating above the scene. He could see it all, a bird's eye view. Somehow he had become detached from his body, hovering in the air. He could still see his body below him on the ground, the paramedics, the blanketed hit man, the cop cars, the white van.
The paramedic looked up at his co-worker as he removed the stethoscope from his ears. Then he shook his head.
As Karl watched, the scene below him faded to total blackness.
24
An hour after Karl Darlow died, the San Diego Police contacted Sandy at her office. Her work number had been listed in his billfold as next of kin. She called Johnny at once and told him what had happened. He said he would come right down and pick her up at the Home Federal Building.
Johnny was so enraged he almost sideswiped a bus on his drive the few blocks downtown. He screamed at the driver who cut him off and at once steered to the curb and parked for a minute, taking in deep breaths and wiping the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand.
He had thought Karl was out of danger, that the Mafia had decided he either did not see anything incriminating or that he had decided to keep quiet about it. Now what? They could know nothing of Sandy, she was safe.
Johnny wanted to see the police report, talk to any witnesses. He would demand to know exactly what had happened. Now there was nothing to stop his investigation. He would dig into it until they came after him. He shook his head. Not that way, they would just kill him and forget about it. He had to make a plan.
First Sandy, she came before anything else.
He saw her standing on the sidewalk in front of the Home Federal Building on Broadway. She saw him and ran to the car. Sandy got in and they drove. Her eyes were red and swollen.
Sandy leaned against him and he turned down Sixth until he found a place to park.
She was crying. He held her tightly and kissed her hair.
"Why?" she asked tremulously.
"They were afraid of what he knew, or thought he knew. And they're going to pay."
"No!" She pushed away from him. "Johnny Gray, you are going to do nothing, do you hear me? We do what the police said and we drop it. They killed one man I loved. I won't stand for them killing the second!"
He put his arms around her and they sat that way for five minutes. Her sobs diminished.
"They said we had to go to the… to identify…"
"Yes. I'll do it."
Johnny knew where to go. He tried to talk Sandy out of the identification. He could do it. She insisted.
"I want to see him once more. Then… then cremation. He always said he wanted his ashes scattered over the Pacific. We can go out on the boat with Poke."
In the morgue Sandy stood weeping silently, looking at her father's relaxed face. Then she nodded, and Johnny helped her out of the room.
Johnny put Sandy down to bed when they arrived home. There would be no dinner that night. When Sandy went to sleep, Johnny called a cop he knew on the night desk at the downtown police station.
The officer read a copy of the report to Johnny before the watch sergeant came back.
"What was the other dead man's name?" Johnny asked.
"Ted Young," the officer replied, and Johnny thanked him and put down the phone.
He sat at the l
ittle kitchen table staring at the wall. He knew exactly what he wanted to do. Take a.45 and walk into Manny Marcello's office and blow his brains out. But that would be suicide. Besides, there wasn't a chance that he could even get close to the big man.
What could he do? Sandy said do nothing. Let it lie.
He could not function that way.
He would have to exercise patience.
Somewhere down the road there would be a time and a place.
The Mafia would pay!
25
Two days after the Hard Corps' celebration over their initiation into crime, Angela contacted Dale Ingles for another smuggling job across the border.
She had had a stormy session with her father and had talked him into letting her take flying instructions. Manny had laid down a take-it-or-leave-it requirement: the lessons must be given by his own pilot, Dale Ingles.
Angela had bristled at the suggestion and argued for a moment, then conceded, laughing inside all the time at the neat way she had fooled her father.
Now they landed at another spot along the border. Each pickup was at a different location so locals or border watchers could not establish a pattern. So far they had made four successful trips, and the Hard Corps coffers had grown considerably.
This time when Morales walked up to the plane after it stopped on the dirt road, he looked nervous.
"Only one hombre this time," he said. "When I tell him the price, he no say nothing. He carry a heavy suitcase."
"Dope?"
"He is Colombian, señorita. I think it is cocaine."
Angela set her pretty mouth. "Bring him over and we'll talk." Bargain for a higher price, she thought.
The man was small, and darker than Juan.
"Do you speak English?" she asked.
"No speak," he said.
"Tell him to pick up his suitcase," Angela told Juan.
The dark man did.
She walked up to him and frisked him completely.
She lifted her small automatic and aimed it at the passenger.
"He's got a hideout gun in his shorts, Juan. Take it away from him or no ride."
Juan chattered at the man a moment in Spanish, then the Colombian unzipped his pants and pulled a small revolver from a holster on the inside of his thigh. Dale took the weapon.
Resurrection Day Page 18