by Wayne Block
“All I know is that it will be slow and painful. I don’t want him to die quickly. He must suffer as I suffer.”
“Do you even have a gun?” Alberto asked.
“No. Not yet.”
“Steven, I’ve made many mistakes and I have regrets. Hatred and vengeance won’t be a path to your salvation. Even though you are justified in this pursuit, if you have the opportunity to kill him, do it quickly.”
Steven shook his head. “I’ll make this man suffer and then I will end his miserable life!” Steven felt blood rushing to his head at the thought of killing the Scorpion.
Alberto bit his lip as his face darkened. “You are acting on your emotions and that means you will fail. Divorce yourself from all feelings.”
Steven nodded. “I understand.”
“I know this goes without saying, but we never had this conversation. For the sake of my family, swear that you will never tell anyone we helped. As for me, understand that I wash my hands of your blood.”
Steven nodded.
“You’ll need to go to Chicago to see a man named Carlo Pontedor, who we call Charlie P. Charlie worked with the Scorpion. Charlie has never seen him, but he may be able to set you on the right path. Charlie is our good friend and I’ll tell him you are coming. May God be with you! Nick will walk you to your car.”
Steven thanked Alberto and kissed Bebe on the cheek before leaving. He almost stumbled, not realizing how much he’d drunk. Outside, Nick lit a cigarette and paced back and forth as they waited for the attendant to retrieve Steven’s car.
“Anything I can do to change your mind?”
Steven shook his head.
They waited in silence until the car arrived.
Nick gave the valet a ten dollar bill. “I’ll call you tomorrow and we’ll talk about Chicago.”
Steven nodded, slid into his Toyota and rolled down the window. “Thanks, Nick.”
Nick rolled his eyes. “You’re a pain in the ass and you’re insane.” Handing Steven a large manila envelope, Nick continued, “You know who this is from but you can never thank him.”
Steven looked at Nick with a puzzled expression and shook the envelope.
“Open it,” Nick ordered.
Steven carefully opened the envelope and saw a vacuum-sealed freezer bag stuffed with cash. He looked at Nick in amazement.
“It’s $75,000,” Nick answered casually. “You’ll need spending money. Use the cash so you don’t leave a trail.”
“Can you get me a gun?” Steven asked.
Nick sneered. “Get it yourself, hotshot. While you’re at it, get yourself a new car, too. This piece of shit is in worse shape than Amanda’s van.” Nick turned and walked back into the restaurant.
---------------
Steven finished packing and checked his voicemail. He had two messages from Detective Johnston, one each from his mother and sister, and a few from friends and relatives. Steven had already made arrangements to sell his house and all his personal property through his brother-in-law, Marco. Other than his hosts at Peter Luger’s, Marco was the only person who knew Steven’s plan. Steven had Marco’s blessing and assurances that he would tell no one.
Steven grabbed a cold bottle of Budweiser from the refrigerator, sat down in his recliner, and studied his airline e-ticket bought using his credit card, which he planned to max out, knowing that he would be dead before the bill arrived. He ignored Nick’s advice about using cash; an amateur decision by a novice hunter. He ran his fingers across the ticket. What am I doing? he thought. I’m in the food business. Alberto and Nick were right, this is suicide! Steven picked up a recent photograph of his wife and daughter taken a few weeks before their deaths. Amanda wore a maternity bathing suit and Catarina was kissing her belly. He vividly remembered that wonderful day at the beach with his family. It was the first time he had introduced his daughter to the ocean. Steven absentmindedly rubbed the picture, stroking his wife’s stomach and daughter’s face. He cried.
The telephone rang and jolted Steven painfully into the present.
“Hello,” he answered.
“Steven, it’s Detective Johnston. I called earlier. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Steven replied in a monotone voice. “I just got home and heard your messages.”
“Have you got a minute? I wanted to update you on the investigation.”
“Go ahead.”
“We think the same gun was used in the murders of Tony and Rosina Olivaro, his partners Tony and Sal, their girlfriends, and your family. The killer used a Glock 234 with a silencer; not something we see every day. Obviously we don’t have much on the killer, yet. We know he acted alone, moved very quickly, and committed several murders. What we did learn, working with the Manhattan Police, was that records of Olivaro’s company showed shipments to Gia’s Pride Imports in San Remo, Italy. Does that name mean anything to you?”
Gia’s Pride Imports–where had he heard that name? Steven wondered. “No. Who the hell is Gia?”
“I have no idea. Some guy named Roberto Milani ran the business. Some of the Italian detectives in Manhattan have contacts in Italy who made inquiries. You want to know the most amazing part?”
Steven moved forward in his chair and polished off the rest of the beer. “Tell me,” he said, interested in the connection with Tony’s business.
“Roberto Milani was murdered in his sleep along with his mother and father. This happened two days after the Westhampton murders. We’re working with San Remo Police for ballistic comparisons. I have a strong suspicion it’s the same guy.”
Steven flinched. “Are you telling me the killer went to Italy and murdered Milani’s family after killing mine because Milani was involved with Tony?”
Detective Johnson knew he finally had Steven’s attention. “Exactly, although it’s possible that he may have had help. We’re still figuring it out. We’ve got forensic accountants pouring over Tony’s business records.”
“Now you’re talking,” Steven said. “That’s great work.”
“By the way, I spoke with Teresa. She vouched for your alibi and confirmed you were with her until 1:30 a.m.”
Steven’s felt nauseated. He hadn’t thought about Teresa. A surge of guilt came over him.
“I want you to stay in touch with me. I don’t want you going anywhere without checking with me first,” the detective said. “Do you understand?”
“Where the hell do you think I’m going?” he said, fingering his e-ticket.
“I’m here if there’s anything you need. Everything is going to work out, you’ll see.”
“I have to believe that. Good night, detective.” Steven hung up the telephone. He saw Detective Johnston as a good man who cared about doing the right thing. It didn’t feel right to lie to him, but confiding in the detective was not an option. Steven had already purchased another cell phone with a new number, given only to Marco and Nick. He knew that Johnston could only reach the voice mail on his old phone. Steven double-checked the items in his suitcase and carry-on bag. He needed to get a few hours of sleep since he did not know when he would next have an opportunity for that luxury.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Steven caught a cab at O’Hare and headed downtown. Who was “Charlie P.”? According to Nick, Charlie was once a high-flying, street-savvy criminal defense attorney for Chicago’s most prestigious law firm. He had been the firm’s torrential rainmaker, bringing untold millions into its coffers. Charlie was the embodiment of the American Dream, rising to the top echelon of Chicago society from his family’s humble beginnings as Italian immigrants. He shared a mansion in Glencoe with his beauty-queen wife and two stunning daughters. They spent summer vacations in Europe and winter holidays at his house in Aspen.
However, Charlie had a serious personality flaw. He was an incurable thrill seeker, never content with his life, constantly seeking new challenges. Charlie enjoyed mingling with celebrated personalities, the wealthy, and the powerful. He eventually cross
ed the line by taking several organized crime figures as his preferred clientele and alienating his corporate clients. Like a heroin addict, Charlie got a rush from these businessmen of the night and the crimes they “allegedly” committed. He found himself spending most of his time traveling to New York and Las Vegas, leaving little time or energy to maintain his prestigious society relationships. He began frequenting gambling tables and Vegas strip-clubs, and started to drink intemperately. His transformation was rapid, culminating in his firm firing him. Although his partners loved the money he brought to the firm, they couldn’t stomach the negative publicity that Charlie had been generating. They could no longer tolerate the unwanted attention he garnered from federal and state authorities. Furthermore, his corporate clients, who viewed themselves as cleaner criminals, did not want their attorney putting them on hold to take a call from men with names like Sammy “the Widow-Maker” Scarlatti.
Five minutes after checking in, Steven sat at the Hilton’s bar, sipping a Bloody Mary. The concierge came over holding an envelope.
“Mr. Capresi?”
“Yes,” Steven answered, looking up from his newspaper.
“A gentleman delivered this letter a few minutes ago. You weren’t in your room, so I took the liberty of bringing it to you.”
Steven pulled two dollars from his shirt pocket. “Thank you.” He read the note:
Welcome to Chicago, Mr. Capresi. I’ve made an 8:00 dinner reservation at Gibson’s Steakhouse on the corner of State and Rush. Give the maitre’d your name and he will escort you to my table. See you then. Charlie P.
Steven folded the paper and glanced at his watch. As he walked away he threw the crumpled note in a lobby receptacle.
-------------------
At a few minutes to eight, Steven entered Gibson’s Steakhouse and was directed to a booth in the corner of the main dining room where Charlie P. was sitting. Two martini glasses, one empty, one full, were sitting on the table in front of him. Across the table was a glass containing a dark, amber-colored liquid with several ice cubes.
“Have a seat Steven. It’s very nice to meet you. I took the liberty of ordering your drink–Johnnie Walker Red, on the rocks– as well as dinner. I hope you don’t mind.”
Steven smiled appreciatively and nodded toward his drink. “I see you’ve already got some intel.”
Charlie P. was exactly what Nick had described, except more impressive. His hair, buzz-cut short, gave his head a platinum sheen. He was impeccably dressed in an elegant black suit and a crisp white shirt, with a gray and silver striped tie, and a matching silk handkerchief peeking out from his upper suit pocket.
“May I call you Charlie or do you prefer Charlie P.?”
“My friends call me Charlie.”
“I’m honored,” Steven replied.
“I’ve been a lifelong friend of Alberto and Pierro, may he rest in peace. I’ve had people drop me like a bad habit, but Alberto and Pierro never faltered; they were there in good times and in bad.” Charlie paused and scratched his eyebrow. “I’ve known politicians, athletes, celebrities; and yet, Alberto and Pierro, infamously categorized as “mobsters,” are two of the most honorable men I have ever met.”
“They have always been true to their friends.”
Charlie smiled. “That’s why I am here. Alberto loves you. You would never remember me, but I met you when you were young and hanging around with Nick. You were a likeable kid.”
Their conversation was suddenly interrupted as a woman stumbled into their table. Steven’s eyes met her unusual, silver-blue eyes and he stood to help her. He immediately thought of Amanda’s angelic eyes, a color he had never seen before until now. After an awkward apology Steven sat and watched the woman proceed to her table.
“As I said,” Charlie continued, “I don’t expect you to remember me. There were a lot of people coming and going through your neighborhood in those days. I knew your father. You remind me a lot of him.”
Steven turned pale.
“What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“How could you have known my father? He was in the food business.”
Charlie shrugged. “He was just one of the guys in the neighborhood. Summer nights were unpleasantly warm. Everyone used to hang out in the street where it was cooler. It was a good opportunity to meet the neighbors.” Charlie pulled out a vial from his jacket and spilled a few pills onto the table. “Medication for my heart,” he said, swallowing the pills and chasing them down with his martini.
“Do you know what happened to my father?”
“I don’t.”
“Well, that’s not important. I didn’t come here to discuss my father. Let’s talk about why I’ve traveled to Chicago.”
“Alberto isn’t happy about this meeting.” Charlie said. “But he asked me to tell you everything I know.”
“Thank you,” Steven said, studying Charlie’s face. Nick had told Steven that Charlie had been a high-stakes poker player, and Steven realized he wasn’t going to get anything from Charlie that Charlie wasn’t willing to divulge.
Charlie leaned back in the booth and locked his hands behind his head, stretching his neck from side to side. “I guess it’s time we discussed the illustrious Scorpion. I’m sure Alberto has told you I never met the Scorpion. That doesn’t mean I haven’t had interesting conversations with him. I’ve spoken with him many times.”
Steven slid back in the booth with heightened interest. “Tell me.”
Charlie placed his hands on the table, sat erect, and moved slightly forward as if delivering an opening statement to a jury. “After I was disbarred, I hit the lowest point in my life. My wife divorced me and took my kids, and I lost all my money. I was having a hard time. Some friends took pity and got me involved in their business deals. One deal involved a heroin shipment for two Jamaicans trying to make a name for themselves. The Jamaicans decided they weren’t going to pay. My client told me to resolve the problem. I brokered my first hit. One of my colleagues recommended the Scorpion. I had my contact make the arrangements; the only hitch was that nobody had ever seen this guy. This was one of his conditions–complete anonymity. My first contact with him was at a payphone where he called me. I spoke with him five or six times during that first contract.”
“What happened to the Jamaicans?” Steven asked.
“They were found floating in the Hudson River.”
“How much did you pay him?”
“A quarter of a million dollars, but that was a long time ago. His price is now much higher. Rumor has it he got two million for his latest job.”
“You mean the job that killed my family?”
Charlie didn’t attempt an answer and Steven wasn’t waiting for one. “When was the last time you worked with him?”
“About ten months ago.”
“Another hit?”
“Yes,” Charlie answered, trying not to say anything more than necessary.
“How many hits have you brokered for him?” Steven asked, an accusatory tone in his voice.
Charlie didn’t like Steven’s tone. “I don’t pull the trigger. I merely facilitate the inevitable. The targets were destined for elimination.”
“That’s right,” Steven shot back. “Just like my family. Some guy like you ‘brokers’ the hit. He can sleep at night because someone else pulled the trigger!”
Charlie lowered his eyes and sank a little deeper into the sofa, embarrassed and uncomfortable. “Don’t indict me. I bring people together. I make telephone calls. That’s all I do.”
“Yeah, Charlie, you just set the wheels in motion and people get killed.” Steven’s anger slowly abated. He realized it was stupid to belabor the point, especially with someone who was helping him. “I’m sorry, Charlie. Just tell me about the Scorpion.”
“He’s got a distinct, soothing, baritone voice with a subtle English accent. He is very intelligent and charming.”
Steven frowned. “I don’t believe I’m going to
be charmed by the prick.”
Charlie nodded in agreement. “No, I wouldn’t expect you would.”
“How is he intelligent?”
Charlie scratched his chin reflectively before replying. “He is well-versed in academia. His vocabulary is extensive. As a lawyer, I can appreciate mastery of the English language. He believed he was imperfectly perfect.”
“What do you mean?”
“He loved obscure philosophical quotes such as Schopenhauer–‘After your death you will be what you were before your birth.’ Or from Kant–‘Such crooked wood as that which man is made of, nothing straight can be fashioned.’ He was also a very accomplished hunter. He told me about several hunting expeditions. He was incredibly intrigued with the concept of man versus man in a survival of the fittest setting.”
“Sounds like a sick puppy to me.”
“Maybe so, but he was also philosophical about the concept and constantly stressed the importance of patience. He told me, and I quote: ‘Patience is a virtue, but more importantly, a blueprint for survival. A predator must relentlessly study its prey. By doing so, it will know its movements, its motivation and needs, its habits, strengths, and weaknesses’. He thinks hunting is a gloriously noble pursuit and the essence of life! He believes he is the perfect hunter at the same time he is aware man is imperfect.”
Steven felt goose bumps rising on his arms. “Why in the world would he tell you about himself? Why wasn’t it strictly business?”
“He is lonely. It was never my idea to have these conversations. He’d always go off on tangents. It sounds bizarre, but he wanted me to know he was more than a professional assassin. He spoke about God. He quoted Nietzsche: ‘God too has his hell: that is his love for man’.’”
Steven frowned.
“He feels no remorse,” Charlie continued. “He views himself as a shepherd tending a flock or a farmer cultivating his crops. ‘Sometimes you pull weeds, sometimes you ferret out the weak and the sick,’ he told me. He sees himself as a necessary link in the chain of life, a vulture that scavenges the remains of a carcass. He eliminates those who must die.”