Angels Fallen

by Francis Smith

  Perluci smiled at Father Lester, pausing several seconds before he continued. “But that’s not all. Once the gold was in Vatican hands, Himmler insisted the Vatican set up escape routes for high-ranking Nazis, routes that would run from Franciscan Monasteries, to Catholic churches, to eventually South America and freedom.”

  “Come now, Perluci,” Father Lester spat out, “do you honestly want me to believe that farce? The Ratline was only rumor then, and is still a rumor today!”

  “Not only did Pope Pius know,” Perluci continued, ignoring Father Lester’s comments. “But I was his intermediary. For two months we negotiated the deal. Can you imagine the repercussions if this were to leak out?”

  “Damn it,” Father Lester said. ‘Maybe I haven’t been privy to all of the information you have in your possession.”

  Perluci sat at his desk savoring the apology, or what could be construed as one, from his supervisor. “Thank you for finally realizing this. Now please leave me to my duties.”

  New York City, NY

  The storm predicted by each of the three local weather stations blew in, announcing itself with a horrific clap of thunder, startling Jim awake as he napped on one of the suite’s two king-sized beds.

  Jim searched his surroundings for a clock, locating a cheap digital one above the TV. Six–thirty? I can’t believe it. I’ve been asleep for three hours, looking around for any evidence of Dan’s return. Damn it. I knew I should have gone with him as backup.

  Brooklyn NY

  Dan acquired his ability to go undercover many years before from the illustrious Michael Shawnlin—the IRA’s so-called “ghost man.” During Shawnlin’s 20 years as an active, he never saw the inside of a prison cell, and Dan intended to follow, if ever so discreetly, in his footsteps.

  Employing two subway trains and a taxi to shake any tail that might have followed him, he wound up in the Russian émigré section of Brooklyn, a mere two blocks from his intended destination. Dan found it convenient to exit the taxi a few blocks from his contact in order to test for a tail. Stopping to grab a paper from a street vendor, he pretended to read the headlines, searching over the newspapers top for anything out of the ordinary on the relatively quiet street. Satisfied he was indeed alone, he crossed the street and approached a pawnshop. Dan took a cursory look in the shop’s window, using the window’s reflection to view the street from both directions. Satisfied, he entered the pawn shop.

  The inside of the shop appeared tired, the floor missing a few of its vinyl tiles, while paint flaked from its walls. An undersized floor fan hummed as it strained to cool its surroundings. One of the overhead fluorescent lights continually blinked off and on. To his left hip-level glass counters were covered in assorted piles of well-read sports magazines and horse racing forms, many almost a year old, a trace of dust on their covers.

  To Dan, the place hadn’t changed one bit.

  “Well, well, well, look who has returned to my humble pawn shop, the infamous Father Flaherty,” said the man from behind the counter, eyes barely leaving the racing form he held tightly in his hands. “Come to hock the church jewels or maybe something interesting that was in the collection basket last Sunday, Padre? No, maybe to pay me the $100 you owe me for when the Giants beat the Rams by three points last year?” Luther Finch smiled as he rose from his stool. All 310 pounds seemed to be moving effortlessly with his infectious laughter, barely standing 5’6” in platform shoes with a protruding nose and shaven head. He was known as “the man to see” for underworld business in Brooklyn, having equal dealings with the Russian, Italian, and Black Mafias. He wasn’t prejudiced—money being the great equalizer.

  Dan leaned over to peer behind the glass counter at Luther’s girth. “Luther, are you losing weight?”

  Luther pushed him back effortlessly. “Screw you, Padre,” he spat out in a heavy New York accent. “You want to make some fat jokes around here, go see the aerobics class when their 4:00 p.m. meeting lets out.”

  “Okay, Luther, calm down. I’m just joking. If you keep up the attitude, you’re going to suffer another heart attack. The last one had us all worried, especially your wife.”

  Luther had experienced four heart attacks in five years. His doctor ordered him to lose weight or he would be dead within the year. Eighteen months later Luther was still being Luther. Food was meant for eating and beer for drinking.

  “Now here’s the hundred dollars I owe you with twenty thrown in for interest,” Dan said, laying the money on a glass counter above a display of 38’s and 45’s—all slightly used of course.

  “So kind of you to repay your debts; I can rescind the contract on your ass,” Luther said, jokingly picking up the phone as if to call in one of his henchmen. “Get the hell over here and let me see you. Has it really been a year since we were last together? Damn, how time flies. You know my wife was just asking about you last month. You’ll have to stop down and let her cook for you. No shit. You hear me?”

  “I will, Luther, I will, and tell her I’ll pray for her when I’m in church this Sunday. You, on the other hand, if I were to pray for you the statues would spin.”

  “They wouldn’t be spinning, Father. I’d call it more like dancing,” Luther replied, his forefinger in the air performing a circular motion.

  “Dancing my ass—they’d spin so fast you’d think an oil company paid them drilling rights,” Dan shot back.

  After swatting a fly on the counter in front of him, Luther directed all of his attention to Dan. “All right, smart ass, you got me. Enough with the crap. You didn’t come here to inquire about my health or business—so what can I do for you.”

  “I have a good one for you, Luther,” Dan said. “I need two separate IDs, credit cards to match the IDs, and new passports for myself and another person. The passports will be issued for Canada, the U.S., and New Zealand.”

  Luther didn’t bat an eye, fingering through his personal Rolodex, acting as if the request were an everyday occurrence. “When do you need them by?” he asked nonchalantly.

  “In twelve hours’,and that’s the extreme limit, Luther. I would prefer a one-hour special service as a frequent customer—if you can find it in your big heart.”

  Luther focused on the well-worn Rolodex that looked as though it contained the entire criminal phone directory for Brooklyn. A few years earlier he tried to computerize the list but gave up. It was easier to write the information on a paper card. He liked the idea that he had the option to burn the card if need be, something you couldn’t do with a computer’s hard drive.

  Luther shook his head. “One-hour service you say? What do you think you’re dealing with, a camera store with film drop-off service? Maybe some dry cleaning?” He took his time fingering through his cards before settling on one that seemed to be whiter than the rest, either a recent addition, or he didn’t utilize this particular person’s service often enough.

  “You’re in luck, my Irish friend,” he said, extracting a card from his index. “Geno the forger is out on bail, and I happen to know the punk needs some cash from a bet he placed with me last week and hasn’t paid me yet. I’ll give him a call to tell him you’re on your way.” Luther grabbed a pencil and piece of paper from the glass counter, scribbling down the address before handing it to Dan.

  Dan slipped across five, crisp, new one-hundred-dollar bills as a service fee for dealing with Luther’s criminal side. “Thanks Luther, I owe you.”

  “One minute there, Danny-boy. Church man or not, inflation is eating into my pocket. This prime site doesn’t come cheap.” He waved his flabby arm around the tired shop. “Another bill and we can call it even.”

  Dan handed over another hundred-dollar bill as he looked around the junk-laden shop. “All right, I won’t stand in the way of progress, my friend,” he said. ”Prime site?”

  “Tell your friends about the excellent service. Now get out of here. Geno will be waiting for you.”

  Staten Island, NY

  The Staten Island addr
ess Luther provided took the Jamaican cab driver over an hour to navigate through rush-hour traffic. A tastefully decorated block of row homes with small manicured lawns stood before them as the driver double parked his cab out front. Dan thought the driver had made a few wrong turns to pad the meter price, but hesitated to complain due to the genuine lack of cab availability in New York after 5:00 p.m. on a weekday.

  “This is 405 Grandview, Mon,” the driver said matter-of-factly in a Jamaican singsong accent, his hand on the meter. “Would you like me to wait or will this be your final destination, my friend?”

  “No, this will be my final stop,” Dan said before correcting himself. “You know what? Maybe you should wait. But I’m going to be at least an hour or so. Will a hundred bucks up front keep your butt waiting here?”

  Dan pealed off a crisp new hundred from his bankroll, holding it up for the driver to see before handing it to him.

  The cabdriver’s eyes replied before he did. “For a hundred dollar bill I‘ll go pick up the devil himself at Kennedy Airport and take him to Hunts Pier for some ladies.” He held the bill up to the cab’s overhead light, looking for the embedded security thread. “No problem, I’ll be waiting for you.”

  Reggae music was turned up to a deafening volume as Dan walked up to the house.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Geno Scafetti specialized mainly in credit card forgery, but was also known to pick a pocket or two if times were lean. He once lifted the mayor’s wallet at a local campaign appearance. He also had “the look” for someone in the criminal element; average height, weight, black hair, and brown eyes. If described to a police sketch artist, the unlucky victim could only describe him as your average Italian male.

  The door opened as Dan approached, Geno obviously awaiting his arrival.

  “Come on in, Mr. Flaherty. I’ve been expecting you,” he said, poking his head out the door for any neighbors that may be about. “Luther called about an hour ago to tell me you were coming. That little heads-up provided me time to set up my equipment and get things rolling a little quicker.”

  Geno led him through the tiled main foyer, down the house’s small, unfurnished hallway and into a dimly lit kitchen. The smell of burnt meatloaf still hung in the air.

  “Some of my gear needs to heat up before it can process the hard plastic needed for the passports,” he said, lighting a cigarette, discarding the match in the dish-laden sink. “Now let me get this straight. Luther tells me you need two sets of complete IDs, credit cards to match, and three passports. Is that about it?”

  “That would be the extent of it, Geno,” Dan replied, “and I’ve got five grand in large bills for your services when complete,” tapping his breast pocket indicating he had the money on him. “A potential problem, though. I need it in one hour’s time if possible.”

  Geno produced a grin lacking four or five teeth, probably lost in some prison fight gone awry. Dan could just imagine this man in prison dealing in stolen soap or toilet paper—survival of the fittest.

  “Anything’s possible where money is involved, Mr. Flaherty.” His grin still locked in place.

  “Obviously in your line of business, Geno, I would say that is an understatement.”

  Geno envisioned having his slate with Luther wiped clean, even leaving a little extra change for a wager on the Yankees game. And to think I almost didn’t pick up the phone when the caller ID revealed it was Luther, thinking it concerned his gambling debt.

  The excitement was clearly evident in Geno’s voice. “For $5,000 I’m even going to throw in social security cards free of charge, Mr. Flaherty. If you could just provide me with the passport pictures and any special names you want, I can go to work right away.”

  Dan handed over the pictures and a list of names he’d like to use. “One hour, right? I don’t want to be hanging around here all night. I have some other matters to tend to.”

  “Just grab a chair in the living room, and give me a chance to do my thing; all right? I work alone in the basement to speed things along. I don’t want anyone disturbing me at my work. Now, if you like baseball, the Mets are playing the Phillies on channel 42, and beer is in the fridge. Help yourself. I don’t have any of that Irish beer,” he said, making a play off his accent. “But I have the regular domestic beers.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not in the drinking mood just yet,” Dan replied. “And I absolutely deplore your American baseball. I think I’ll just read some of your magazines on the coffee table and unwind a little while you work your magic.”

  DAN HEARD GENO re-enter the room.

  “These are works of art, Mr. Flaherty, if I may say so myself—real Picassos,” he said, tossing the rubber-banded packet of IDs over to Dan for his inspection.

  Geno returned to the kitchen to grab a beer. Upon re-entering the living room, he eyed Dan already hunched over the coffee table with a jeweler’s magnification piece covering his right eye, performing a detailed inspection of his work.

  After Dan appeared satisfied with the passport stamps, he held the paper up to the overhead light to look for the watermark on the individual pages.

  This joker certainly knows his business, Geno thought, waiting a few more minutes before speaking. “If everything is in order, Mr. Flaherty, can we discuss the payment issue? We did agree to five grand?” He knew Luther would want his customary cut by week’s end.

  Dan placed the rubber band back around the packet of passports, satisfied with the high quality of work.

  “Yes, we did, Geno, five grand,” Dan said. Looking up at Geno, he reaches into his sports coat pocket, extracting a Beretta 9 millimeter, silencer already mounted on its barrel, now aiming it at Geno. A sly grin was evident upon Dan’s face as he delivered two clean shots to Geno’s head, the shots force propelling him back into the kitchen , slamming him against the refrigerator door.

  Dan looked at the lifeless body slumped against the base of the refrigerator, his eyes still wide open, mouth agape. “Sorry, but no witnesses,” he said.

  He found a pint of turpentine under the sink. Gathering old newspapers and magazines, he built a pile on the kitchen floor next to Geno’s body. Taking great care, he poured a measured portion of the turpentine onto the papers. Next he walked to the basement where Geno kept his records and equipment, dousing the records with the remainder of the turpentine. Satisfied with his work, he tossed a lit match on top of Geno’s meticulously compiled records of customers, waiting a few seconds to make sure the records caught fire.

  “Geno, you old geezer,” Dan said aloud. “You were going to blackmail a lot of people with your detailed records, weren’t you? Or was it double duty for the cops to save your skin? Oh well, I guess it really doesn’t matter now, does it?”

  Seeing the flames leap to other areas of the basement office, Dan returned to the kitchen and lit the pile of papers next to Geno’s body.

  Satisfied, he slipped out the house’s rear door, navigating his way down a darkened back alley and around a side street to his awaiting taxi.

  “My business here is complete my friend so you can drive me back to where you first picked me up, Luther’s Pawn Shop, West 82nd,” Dan commanded. He casually looked from side-to-side to see if any of Geno’s neighbors were out and about.

  The cabbie was delighted to be chauffeuring around such a well-paying customer. “No problem, Mon,” he replied.

  “If you don’t mind, my friend, I’m going to take a little nap.” Dan mentally replayed the whole process to make sure no mistakes were made. Satisfied there were, as always, none, he drifted off into a fitful sleep.

  “YO, MAN, WE ARE here my friend,” the cabbie said, the smile still evident upon his face, the hundred-dollar bill still working its magic. “Shall I wait again, boss?”

  Shacking off the effects of his nap, Dan checked to make sure his gun still lay in his jacket pocket. “Are you kidding? After tonight I’m going to have to deduct you from my taxes,” he said, smiling. “This will be a quick visit. Give me t
wo minutes, and I’ll be out. I have to drop something off.”

  He quickly exited the cab and bounded upthe two concrete steps leading to Luther’s storefront, bursting through the door as if he owned the place—taking care to lock the door after entering.

  “You back already, Danny boy? You just left a couple of hours ago,” Luther said, puzzled at the grand entrance and Dans’ locking of the door. “Everything work out okay between you and Geno? You look a little pissed.”

  Dan held up a wad of hundred dollar bills as he walked passed Luther. “Sort of, Luther. Can we talk in the back about something private?” He looked around to make sure they were alone.

  Luther squeezed his mass from behind the glass counter following Dan into the back room. “What other of my vast services do you require for that type of money you’re waving around, Danny Boy,” Luther said. “And why the backroom bit? I usually conduct all of my business outside at the counter. The cops don’t bother this place. I pay them decent money.”

  Dan pulled out his 9mm for the second time in an hour, quickly raising it to Luther’s head. “I hate to do this, Luther,” he said sympathetically.

  “Danny…. don’t…..we go back a ways,” Luther shouted, searching for anything that could be used as a weapon. “We are friends. I have a wife.” He stumbled over a stack of racing sheets stacked high on the floor as he backedup—falling on his ass. “Here, take my money. Is that what you want?” He waved a thick bundle of bills in front of him as he struggled to get up.