Oh, Christ! Declan thought, running into the building after him.
But it was too late.
Mohawk Joe had already begun taking the sledgehammer to the mirrors. Declan would have tried to stop him, but the Indian was so out of control he was afraid he’d get killed, which seemed like too big a price for a job that paid two dollars per week.
By the time it was all over, the House of Mirrors literally had no mirrors.
Mohawk Joe finally passed out on the floor, cutting himself pretty badly with shards of broken glass.
For some unknown reason, the construction foreman held Declan and Tommy responsible for the Indian. “You guys get rid of this piece of shit right now,” the construction foreman said.
“Get rid of him?” Tommy said. “Meaning…?”
“Meaning, take the frickin’ Mohawk some place, and make sure he never comes back,” the construction foreman said. “That, or pack up your tools and leave.”
“We don’t have a car,” Declan said.
“The Indian’s got a car, don’t he?” the construction foreman snapped. Of course, Declan and Tommy knew he did, having driven the car back from Jacksonville two months earlier.
“Fine,” Declan said, “but you better let us keep our jobs.”
The construction foreman didn’t answer.
Chapter Forty-Two
San Francisco, California
June 23, 1936
After receiving the phone call from The Palace Hotel bellman, The Owl dispatched his sons to San Francisco. They made the 250-mile trek from Las Vegas to Los Angeles by car, and then boarded the train known as the Super Chief for the remaining four hundred miles to Fog City.
Exactly twenty-four hours later, Fabrizio and Fortunato sat in the bar at The Palace Hotel, pounding down a few bourbons before taking the elevator to retrieve what was rightfully theirs and extract a pound of flesh for killing their brother.
The bellman appeared in the corner of the room and nodded his head, confirming that Ulrich and Onyx had returned from their dinner out, then hurried off wanting no part of the violence that was sure to follow.
“Ready?” Fortunato asked as he set his empty glass on the bar. Fabrizio tipped his head back and drained the final drops from his fifth drink and nodded in the affirmative.
“Don’t forget the shopping bag,” Fabrizio said.
The two men walked to the elevators and pressed the up button. The elevator doors opened and much to their surprise, Onyx Webb was standing in the elevator car directly in front of them.
People were right—she was a stunning dame, Fortunato thought. Better still, she was leaving the hotel, which meant she wouldn’t be in the way.
Fortunato and Fabrizio stepped aside as Onyx exited the elevator car and watched as she walked away. Fortunato raised his eyebrows, and shot Fabrizio a look.
“Maybe later?”
Fabrizio shook his head in disgust and pushed the button for the seventh floor. Once the doors closed, Fortunato removed his suit coat and put on the white room service jacket they’d gotten from the bellman who’d dropped the dime on Ulrich the day before. When the bellman asked when he’d get his two-thousand-dollar reward, “afterward” was all he was told.
They could hear music as they approached Suite 738. “The radio’s on. That’s good,” Fortunato said as Fabrizio stepped to the side of the door as planned and rapped with the barrel of a gun several times. “Room service,” he said loudly.
They waited.
Fortunato knocked again, calling out even louder. “Hello, room service.”
Several seconds passed, and then the door swung open. Ulrich was dripping wet, with a towel wrapped around his waist. “We didn’t order anything…” he started to explain.
Fabrizio placed the barrel of the gun against Ulrich’s temple, and Ulrich froze.
“Good evening, Mr. Schröder,” Fortunato said as he swung his leg forward, his foot striking Ulrich in the center of his groin. As Ulrich doubled over in pain, Fabrizio grabbed him by the hair and dragged him into the suite as Fortunato swung the door closed behind them. The entire operation took less than six seconds.
Fortunato emptied the contents of the Emporium Department Store shopping bag on a table—a twelve-foot length of rope, a roll of electrical tape, a bottle of sulfuric acid—and what looked like a collection of kitchen utensils, including a cheese slicer, melon baller, a metal tenderizing mallet, and a garlic press.
“Are we cooking something?” Ulrich asked in an attempt at humor and false bravado as Fortunato tied him to a chair with the length of rope.
“Yeah, we’re cookin’ you, asshole,” Fabrizio said, slapping a strip of electrical tape over Ulrich’s mouth. “Hey, Fortunato, you think the German would taste good basted in garlic?”
Fabrizio pulled his arm back and then released a hard- backhand slap across Ulrich’s face to get his attention. “Okay, here’s the thing, Schröder. We want our money, and I mean all of it. What’s the tab up to now?”
“Let’s see,” Fortunato said, pulling a small notepad from his pocket. “With what you borrowed, plus the vig, what you stole from the saloon, plus the vig, comes to $43,274 and change. Throw in pain and suffering for killing our brother, Flavio, and I’m thinkin’ an even $75,000.”
“Sounds right to me,” Fabrizio said. “So, you give us our $75,000, we untie you, and then we all go home happy.”
Ulrich shook his head from side to side.
“I didn’t think so,” Fabrizio said, reaching for the cheese slicer on the table. “Hey, Fortunato, you ever had German cheese before?”
“I’m not in the mood for cheese. What about we use the melon baller and take out his eyes?” Fortunato asked. Ulrich began to squirm and rock in the chair, understanding the severity of the situation.
“Nah, I say we try a nice big slice of German Schröder,” Fabrizio said. The mobster took a step forward and ran the razor-sharp metal device down the side of Ulrich’s arm. Even with the tape over his mouth, the sound of Ulrich’s scream filled the room.
Fortunato walked over and turned up the volume on the radio as Fortunato held the kitchen utensil where Ulrich could see a long strand of his bloody skin hanging like red mozzarella. “That’s for my brother, Flavio,” he said.
“So, you got our money yet? I didn’t think so,” Fabrizio said. A tear rolled down Ulrich’s cheek—half from pain and half from abject fear. Fortunato picked up the melon baller from the table. “Whad’ya say we take that eye now?”
Ulrich’s eyes grew wide and he began frantically nodding his head up and down. “Looks like he’s sayin’ yes,” Fortunato said.
Ulrich wasn’t saying yes.
Ulrich was signaling Onyx.
Onyx had quietly stepped into the room, completely unnoticed by the Spilatro brothers, who had become preoccupied torturing Ulrich.
“Looks like he’s ready to pay up,” Fabrizio said.
“I don’t know,” Fortunato said. “I think maybe we should pour some sulfuric acid into a cereal bowl and let his sack go for a swim.”
Ulrich watched as Onyx wrapped her hand around the neck of the quart bottle of Philip’s Peppermint Schnapps she’d purchased at the bar, nodding furiously at her to hurry up.
“Looks like Schröder agrees,” Fabrizio said.
When the bottle smashed into the back of Fabrizio’s head, Onyx expected the glass to shatter like it did in the movies. But it didn’t—it remained intact. In any case, the impact served its intended purpose, and Fabrizio collapsed to the floor.
Fortunato heard the dull thump of the bottle connecting with his brother’s skull from behind him. He spun around and took a step toward Onyx, then saw Fabrizio’s gun in her hand and froze.
“I don’t know who you are or why you have my husband tied to that chair,” Onyx said, “but I suggest you leave.”
Ulrich shook his head violently from side to side, squealing through the tape, trying to tell Onyx not to let the man go, but was forced
to watch helplessly as Fortunato made his way to the door of the suite.
“We ain’t finished, Schröder,” Fortunato said.
Chapter Forty-Three
Chicago, Illinois
August 5, 1940
“I’m telling you, Dec, it was probably Father Fanning in the mirror again,” Tommy said as they drove Mohawk Joe’s car out of the city.
Declan glanced in the backseat to see that Mohawk Joe, wrapped in a blanket, was still out cold. “With all the booze in him, who knows what he was seeing,” Declan said.
“Nah, it was him,” Tommy said. “So, what’s the plan?”
“I’m thinking we take him out to Dunning.”
“The asylum?” Tommy asked. “Near the house over on Narragansett?”
Declan and Tommy were both familiar with the large mental institution—not because they’d ever been inside, but because the room they were renting was not far from there—and the bus they took let out directly across from the place.
They’d seen the asylum’s patients, stumbling around the grounds barefoot in their dirty hospital gowns—or clinging to the rusted iron fence that surrounded the place—with no idea who they even were anymore.
And they’d heard the rumors about how once you were admitted you never got out. Which was exactly what they needed when it came to Mohawk Joe.
“That’s pretty smart,” Tommy said.
Declan stayed on Irving Boulevard until they reached Mt. Olive Cemetery on Narragansett, and hung a right.
The first thing they saw as they approached the asylum was the notable absence of crazy people wandering the lawn.
But there were police. Lots of them—in cop cars with lights flashing, on the streets around the facility, and walking the asylum grounds.
It was the last thing Declan and Tommy needed.
Declan drove past the entry gate where several uniformed officers were stopping cars going in and out and checking ID.
“Maybe some crazy nut escaped,” Tommy said.
“Yeah, maybe,” Declan said, deep in thought.
“We can’t get involved with the police, Dec,” Tommy said.
Declan glanced in the backseat of the car. Mohawk Joe was still out like a light, not moving an inch since they loaded him in at Riverview.
“Let’s see if there’s another entrance,” Declan said.
There wasn’t.
It was clear from the design of the place that the intent was to make everyone entering and exiting pass through a single checkpoint—the gate at the front of the building.
It was when Declan circled the asylum for the second time that he noticed the cemetery on the opposite side of the street, so he pulled in and parked.
“What are we doing?” Tommy asked.
“Help me get him out of the car,” Declan said.
“What? Here?”
“Yeah, here,” Declan said.
Getting the limp, blood-soaked Mohawk Indian out of the backseat reminded Declan of the day he and Tommy dropped Father Fanning’s blood-soaked body into the construction chute at the Ambassador Theater.
“Let’s put him there,” Declan said, motioning to a grave with a large statue of an angel as the headstone.
“On the grave?” Tommy asked as they heaved Mohawk Joe on the ground at the angel’s feet.
“Come on, it’s getting dark,” Declan said.
“What we just did was sacrilegious, you know that, right?” Tommy said as they drove out of the cemetery. “Even Sister Kay Kay would frown on this.”
“You got any change?” Declan asked.
Five minutes later, Declan hung up the pay phone and got back in the car where Tommy sat waiting. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?” Tommy asked.
“I called the asylum and told them there was a crazy person wandering around the cemetery threatening people.” Declan put his foot on the clutch and moved the stick into drive.
“Yeah, we don’t want to be anywhere near Mohawk Joe when the guys in the white coats show up,” Tommy said.
“I think it’s time to go,” Declan said.
“I know, I just said—”
“No, I’m saying it’s time to get out of Chicago,” Declan said. “I feel like we’ve been here long enough, too long maybe. We’re not getting anywhere, Tom. We’re just treading water, barely keeping our noses above drowning. There’s got to be more to life than not drowning.”
“We got jobs here, Dec,” Tommy said.
“Do we?” Declan asked.
The two boys remained silent for the next ten minutes as they drove back into the city.
“Tom, what day is it?” Declan asked.
“It’s Monday,” Tommy said.
“No, I mean the date.”
“August 5,” Tommy said. “How come?”
“No reason,” Declan said and went silent.
“I know that look, Dec,” Tommy said. “Something’s up. What is it?”
“Let’s go,” Declan said.
“Go? What do you mean, go where?”
“Wherever we want,” Declan said. “We pay our last month’s rent, pack up the car with the little bit of stuff we got, and leave Chicago, just hit the road and go.”
“You saying we should steal the car?” Tommy asked.
“Why not?” Declan said. “Mohawk Joe sure as hell isn’t using it.”
“I don’t know, Dec,” Tommy said. “Don’t you think we pushed our luck enough already, going to Florida and all?”
“I’m serious, Tom. It’s been almost two years living in fear—waiting for the cops to knock on the door—and nothing’s happened. Let’s face it, no one is coming for us. Shit, Tom, no one is even looking!”
“Holy shit, I just got it,” Tommy said, turning in his seat.
“Got what?”
“Why you asked about the date,” Tommy said. “Today’s your birthday, ain’t it?”
Declan nodded but said nothing.
August 5, 1940.
Eighteen years since a train ran off the tracks in Sulphur Springs, Missouri, killing thirty-seven people, including his mother—a woman in a red coat who would never be identified.
“What the hell,” Tommy said finally. “Let’s do it.”
“Okay, pick a direction,” Declan said. “South toward New Orleans? East to New York? North to—?”
“West,” Tommy said. “I say we head west.”
Chapter Forty-Four
San Francisco, California
June 23, 1936
“D0 you think he’s dead?” Onyx asked as she and Ulrich quickly gathered their belongings to leave.
Ulrich walked over to where Fabrizio lay on the floor and kicked the man hard in the ribs, producing an unconscious groan of pain, much to Onyx’s relief.
“No,” Ulrich said. “But we won’t have to worry about him for a while. You clocked him good.”
Onyx and Ulrich took the elevator down to the lobby and headed toward the main entrance of the hotel, where the valet parking stand was located to retrieve the Chrysler.
Unfortunately, neither Onyx nor Ulrich took the time to survey the street. Had they paid more attention, they might have noticed Fortunato Spilatro sitting in the passenger seat of a pale blue, 1930 Style-A Ford, parked at the curb about forty yards up the street.
“Why don’t you just take the car?” the bellman asked from behind the steering wheel.
“You want the reward or not?” Fortunato asked from the passenger seat, a gun pointed at the bellman.
“Yeah, sure, but—”
“Then shut the hell up and watch the door,” Fortunato barked.
“There they are,” the bellman said a moment later as Onyx and Ulrich pushed through the glass doors and walked to the valet stand.
“Good,” Fortunato said. “Wait till they get in the car and follow them, but not too close.”
“Why not whack ‘em right here?” the bellman asked.
“Too many people,” Fortunato responded.
&nbs
p; Once their bags were loaded in the trunk of the Chrysler, Ulrich shoved five dollars in the doorman’s pocket and drove off, with no clue the pale blue Ford had pulled out behind them.
For the next five minutes, the Ford stayed on the Chrysler’s tail.
Ulrich finally glanced in his rearview mirror and saw the pale blue car behind them. “I knew it. They’re following us.”
“What?” Onyx said, turning in her seat to see the Ford directly behind them.
“Don’t worry. I have an idea,” Ulrich said, taking a hard-right turn.
“Where are you going, you son of a bitch?” Fortunato muttered under his breath in the car behind them.
The bellman thought he knew. “They’re going to the bridge.”
The Golden Gate Bridge was—at 4,200 feet from end to end and 746 feet from road to water—the longest and tallest suspension bridge in the world. And though not officially open to the public, Ulrich knew from the article he’d seen that construction was almost complete—all that remained to be done were the guardrails and other cosmetic finishes, like paint and signage.
It was worth the risk.
“Stop!” Onyx screamed when she saw the “Bridge Incomplete, Do Not Enter” sign. But Ulrich ignored her, hitting the gas, and accelerating through the wooden barricade that—in most circumstances—blocked the entrance to the mammoth structure. “Ulrich, what are you doing? You’ll kill us all!”
Ulrich glanced in the rearview mirror again and saw the Ford still close on their tail. “Trust me, Onyx, we will escape,” Ulrich said, pressing the gas pedal all the way to the floor and watching as the Ford fell back, unable to keep up with the Chrysler’s more powerful engine. Ulrich smiled. “See, Onyx, just what I told you!”
Ulrich’s smile quickly faded; however, as the Chrysler was swallowed by a thick blanket of fog.
Onyx Webb: Book Two Page 16