by Wayne Block
Charlie opened the door to his apartment and flicked the light switch. To his dismay, the foyer light was out. He made his way deeper into the room toward a nightlight next to the kitchen sink, and fumbled around until he flicked on the switch. It provided enough light for him to reach the floor lamp in the living room. It too, was out.
“Son-of-a-bitch!” Charlie bellowed.
“Charlie, perhaps I can be of assistance,” came a voice from the far corner of his living room.
Charlie shrieked as he looked toward his living room’s large picture window, which was now completely obscured by heavy drapes. “What? Who’s …!”
An intense beam of light shone directly into Charlie’s eyes, temporarily blinding him. The light drifted slightly to the left side of his face, allowing Charlie a quick glimpse of its source. A man with a dark-colored cowboy hat was seated in Charlie’s massage chair. Charlie covered his eyes with both hands, attempting to block the intense glare.
“Who are you? How the hell did you get in?” As the initial shock subsided, Charlie was now less frightened and more indignant toward the trespasser.
“Sit down, my old friend,” said the calm, soothing voice. “Let us catch up with each other, and then we can talk business. You are forgetting what I have told you all these years…patience is a virtue. I live by those words.”
The words felt like ice injected into Charlie’s veins. His knees buckled slightly as he felt his legs fail. He sank down onto the sofa next to the broken floor lamp and tried to speak. Nothing came out of his suddenly parched mouth. Beads of perspiration formed on his brow and slowly trickled down his face.
The beam of light slowly panned over Charlie’s face.
“Ah, Charles, for a moment you had me worried. I thought you might have forgotten me. But now I see the recognition registered on your face.”
Charlie sat still, breathing hard and shivering.
“I happened to be in the neighborhood and I thought it appropriate to drop in on my old mate.” The man laughed the same familiar laugh Charlie remembered from the telephone conversations over the years.
“How? I mean why? I mean, a m-man like you doesn’t pay social calls,” Charlie stuttered, slowly regaining a modicum of composure.
“Oh Charles, you used to be more articulate,” he chided, amused by Charlie’s inability to formulate a coherent sentence. “Where is the eloquent man I had so admired?”
Charlie said nothing.
“How is your heart condition these days, Charlie?”
“It was much better five minutes ago,” Charlie muttered.
He laughed. “Charles, I have heard interesting murmurs concerning you. Is it true that you had recent company? I thought I would get information directly from the source.”
Charlie weighed his possibilities. Of course it was a trap. The Scorpion, true to his name, loved to toy with his prey. If Charlie lied, and the Scorpion knew he was lying, it would not bode well for him. Conversely, if he confessed, he might be killed anyway.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I’ve had some interesting company,” he answered as nonchalantly as possible.
The Scorpion pointed the light toward the floor allowing Charlie to relax his eyes and set his gaze in the direction of the voice. The first object Charlie saw was a Ruger, with a custom silencer, sitting in the man’s lap. The Scorpion was dressed in black and wore a black overcoat. A cowboy hat was tilted down to obscure his face.
Once the Scorpion was certain Charlie had seen the gun, he turned off the light. He parted the drapes slightly to allow a tiny beam of moonlight to filter in. The moonlight allowed Charlie to see outlines and contours, but little else.
“I can’t see your face,” Charlie said, hoping this might better his chance of survival.
“Let us keep it that way. It would be best for your health if you did not see too much of me,” he laughed.
With little to lose, Charlie grew more confident. “Does that mean there’s a chance I might get out of this alive?”
The Scorpion laughed heartily. “Charles, you really are quite a fellow, and very entertaining. You have been staring at my weapon.”
Charlie didn’t answer.
“Guns are my passion. Maybe even an obsession. Some men collect cars. I prefer the shine of a gun. I have not decided what to do about my old mate, Charles. That will depend how I feel after our moonlight chat.”
“This isn’t like you. You’ve taken a great risk coming here. I just left a card game with my friends. They might knock on the door. There are too many risks,” he repeated for effect.
Now it was the Scorpion who silently pondered Charlie’s words.
Charlie felt uncomfortable with the silence, so he quickly changed the subject. “Can I offer you something to drink?”
“No thank you, Charles. I took the liberty of taking some pop from the icebox before you arrived. I hope you are not offended. Tell me about Steven Capresi.”
“He’s Italian,” Charlie quickly retorted.
“So I am told. Please continue to enlighten me.”
“He’s thirty-one and he’s in the food business.”
“What else can you tell me?”
“He once had a lovely family, but now he’s alone in the world and desperately wants to kill you. But I gather you already know everything I’m telling you, so what’s the point?”
The Scorpion cleared his throat. “The point is to tell me something I do not know about Mr. Capresi. Tell me something of interest to me. Give me some insight into the man who is tracking me. I am unaccustomed to being hunted.”
Charlie saw an opening; that chink in the armor. For some reason the Scorpion was genuinely interested in Steven. Why, he wondered. He decided to take a chance. “First, you tell me why you’re interested in him? Why do you care?”
“Charles, do you really believe you are in a position to cross examine me? Always the barrister.”
“Well, you can kill me now, but then you’ll have no answers,” Charlie shot back.
The Scorpion snickered, enjoying Charlie’s bravado. It was his easy, confident laughter that unnerved Charlie. “Touché, my friend. But that is only check–not checkmate.” He paused to consider Charlie’s question. “Very well, do you mean, just between two old friends? Why is this man important to me?”
“Yes,” Charlie answered, “just between friends.” He wanted to place emphasis on their friendship. Something told Charlie the Scorpion needed to talk, causing Charlie to believe it was possible he might live to see tomorrow.
“Alright, Charles, I will tell you. I am both flattered by and fascinated with this man. Flattered, because nobody has ever set out to track me, especially–n amateur. I am fascinated, because he does not stand a chance, and yet he diligently pursues me. That is very admirable. I would like to know more about him before I kill him. Who knows, I might even give him a sporting chance.”
Charlie bristled. “What more do you have to understand? You murdered his family!”
Charlie had been unable to hold his tongue and immediately realized he may have made a fatal mistake. He regretted his tone and choice of words. He waited what seemed an eternity before the Scorpion spoke, all the while continuing to stare at the motionless gun.
“I see that my actions have deeply offended you.”
Charlie breathed a sigh of relief. This time he carefully chose his words. “I understand your business. I understand you’re a professional. But I don’t understand your actions. I cannot understand the need to kill a small child and a pregnant woman.”
Charlie waited anxiously for a reply, his eyes riveted on the Ruger.
“May I assume that most of your colleagues are displeased with the way I handled my assignment in Westhampton?”
“All of my colleagues,” Charlie answered.
The Scorpion released a heavy sigh, as if he had been burdened for some time. “I do not blame them. I have thought often about the little girl and her mother. I acted hastily and foolish
ly. Perhaps that is why I feel compelled to know more about the father. Who knows, perhaps I might even get the chance to explain myself to him.”
Charlie was astounded at what he was hearing. This cold-blooded killer seemed genuinely remorseful. Was he seeking forgiveness? Charlie’s fascination got the best of him: “Why did you do it?”
“I really do not know,” the Scorpion answered. “At the time, it was instinctive behavior. My reaction was automatic and based more on reflex than anything else. I have had time to visualize the scene in slow motion, and have ultimately realized my incompetence. I see their faces. I made a grave and unforgivable mistake.”
Both men were silent. The Scorpion seemed remorseful, but Charlie remained skeptical, if only for his own survival.
“Even if you were to meet Steven, do you really believe that both of you would leave alive?” Charlie asked.
“Stranger things have happened in my lifetime,” the Scorpion replied. “You seem to like him, Charles.”
“Yes, I do.”
“I do not have many acquaintances. A man in my profession is not permitted the luxury of friendships. Although you and I have only first met tonight, I have always enjoyed our conversations. You might even say I have become fond of you.”
“Now Charles, I need your help. I ask you, not as the Scorpion, but as your friend. I want to meet Steven Capresi and talk with him. I need to know where he is going.”
Charlie considered his options. He knew he was being manipulated. Charlie did not want to play games. His choice was either to trust the Scorpion and tell him about Steven, and possibly live, or refuse him and die. He thought about Steven. At this point, it really didn’t matter whether Charlie told him anything. The Scorpion would get his information sooner or later, with or without Charlie’s cooperation. If there was a chance to live, no matter how small, Charlie wanted it.
“I sent him to Billy Veeksburn.”
The Scorpion nodded his head. “I thought you might do that. Our good friend William. I have not thought of him in quite some time. He still resides in Las Vegas?”
“Yes,” Charlie said, suddenly short on conversation.
“What did you tell Mr. Capresi about me?”
“You were brilliant, impossible to find, and that no one had ever seen your face.”
“Anything else?”
“I told him you were the world’s deadliest assassin, and I tried to convince him to abandon his quest to kill you.”
The Scorpion laughed. He seemed satisfied with Charlie’s response, and knew Charlie could never identify him. It never dawned on him to ask Charlie about voice-recognition. Steven Capresi was obviously searching for someone who could describe his wife’s killer, and the Scorpion felt supremely confident that he would never find such a person.
“I have one last question,” the Scorpion said. “‘Capresi’ is a name that sounds familiar, but I cannot place it. Where have I heard that name before?”
“Steven’s father was Tomasso Capresi. It was shortened from ‘Capresiano.’ He was also known as “’T.C.’”
There was a heavy stillness in the room and neither man spoke. Charlie’s eyes were riveted on the Scorpion, hoping for a reaction, but there was none.
“Steven Capresi is the son of Tomasso Capresiano,” the Scorpion repeated, more a statement than a question. The edge in his voice betrayed his concern.
“Tomasso changed his name many years ago. I foolishly told Steven that I had known his father, which totally surprised him. It just slipped out. Steven believes his father was in the food business, like himself.”
The Scorpion said nothing. Charlie felt sweat running down his face again.
“This is certainly an ironic twist of fate, the Scorpion said, shaking his head. “I have not thought about T.C. in a long time. That was another lifetime. I do miss him. I now understand what destiny dictates me to do. Know that I greatly appreciate your candor.”
Charlie watched him raise the gun and point it directly at him. He started shaking, but said nothing.
“You will tell no one about this visit,” the Scorpion said, raising his right hand and pointing the gun directly at Charlie’s head. “You will not attempt to contact or warn Mr. Capresi or Mr. Veeksburn. I will make this one and only exception and let you live. Go on with your life and forget about Mr. Capresi. If you disappoint me, I will kill you.” With that, he fired a tranquilizing dart into Charlie’s neck from a second, smaller gun cradled in the palm of his left hand, causing Charlie to instantly lose consciousness. The Scorpion looked through Charlie’s closet and grabbed a hat and an overcoat. He put on Charlie’s clothes and slipped out of the apartment and down the stairs into the Chicago night.
CHAPTER TEN
As the plane descended toward the Las Vegas Airport, Steven could see suburban outposts built into the foothills, looking like octopus tentacles reaching into the mountains. As dusk began to engulf the city, he could see the tall towers of colored lights that slowly transformed into the luxurious hotels on the legendary “Strip,” radiating the city with unbridled energy.
Charlie’s friends at the Venetian Hotel had booked Steven a suite at a greatly discounted rate. Naturally, Charlie had exaggerated Steven’s gambling habits and billed Steven as a “high-roller” to get the comp.
After settling into his room, Steven took a quick tour of the Grand Canal Shoppes. He watched the gondoliers serenade hotel guests in the canals that flowed through the Italian Renaissance shops. The canals were sparkling blue, marred only by the occasional cigarette butt. Steven viewed the litter as an ugly reminder of how man could quickly ruin life’s beauty, and it darkened his mood. Artisans were painting, sculpting, dancing, and playing music, but Steven was now numb to his surroundings.
Steven had a paranoid feeling he was being watched. He tried to maintain his composure, casually glancing around and pretending to take in the views of the square while trying to catch the spy. He saw nothing suspicious, and relaxed, satisfied the feeling was only his imagination.
On the other side of the square, seated on a bench behind a group of tourists, a man read his newspaper, glancing up every so often to see if Capresi was still there. He never looked at Steven for more than a second. As Steven walked slowly back to the lobby, the man discretely followed.
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Detective Johnston was sprawled in front of his television watching the New York Mets host the Atlanta Braves. His favorite pastime had always been baseball and he had spent years coaching his daughters in little league. The game was tied at two when the telephone rang. He waited for the second ring before grabbing it.
“Hello.”
“Mike, it’s Marty.”
“Got anything for me?”
“Your friend checked into the Hilton in downtown Chicago and stayed in a suite. He had dinner with someone at Gibson’s Steakhouse. I’m trying to find out who he dined with.”
Detective Johnston scratched his chin pensively. “Is he still at the Hilton?”
“He caught a flight to Vegas. That’s where my research ends.”
“Vegas?” Detective Johnston repeated. “What the hell is he doing in Vegas?”
“Beats me,” Marty answered. “You want me to get more information on him?”
“No thanks buddy. I can handle it from here.”
“No problem Mike. I’ll e-mail his flight information to you.”
Why was Capresi in Vegas and whom did he meet in Chicago, the detective thought. Did he have friends or relatives there or was he on business pertaining to the murders? The detective instinctively felt Steven was up to no good. He thought about whom he might call in Vegas and which of Steven’s family members he should lean on to get information. It was time for him to become more involved in Capresi’s life.
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Steven kicked off his shoes and sat on the edge of the bed in his suite. He noticed that the message light was blinking. Steven followed the automated instructions to retr
ieve his messages. There was only one:
Meet me tomorrow at Red Rock Canyon. Take a taxi. Go to the Visitor’s Center and get a trail map. Bring three bottles of water. Buy a pair of hiking boots. Go to trail number five, called “Turtlehead Peak”. Walk to the end. Meet me at the top of the summit at 2:00 sharp. If you’re late, I’m gone! If you’ve got a gun, don’t bring it. That will just get you killed.
Steven replayed the message several times. He had actually been thinking he should purchase a gun, but now thought better of it. He reviewed a map of Las Vegas and noted that Red Rock Canyon was approximately twenty miles from the hotel. He read about Red Rock Canyon in one of the hotel magazines. The numbered trails were scattered all over the park. He would definitely need a ride from the information center to the trail. The length of the roundtrip hike was five miles, and it appeared that Veeksburn had selected one of the longer trails. He inspected his loafers and his well-worn Adidas cross-trainers. He headed to the shops to purchase hiking boots.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The morning after Giovanna’s arrival, Nick was in an unflappable mood as he made his way through the Lincoln tunnel into the City. He was smiling as drivers cut him off, stroking the petals on the twenty-four red roses he had purchased for his breakfast date. He checked his face in the rearview mirror. Man, are you good looking or what, he thought. It had been a long time since he was this excited over a woman.
Nick pulled his car into the St. Regis Hotel. He was five minutes early. Way to make a good impression, he thought. Women love a punctual man. He walked the perimeter of the restaurant, glancing at the occupied tables. Even though her back was towards him, he instantly knew it was Giovanna. He stood alongside her until she looked up. Her smile lit up his soul.
“You’re on time. I’m impressed.”
“You’re early. I’m even more impressed.”