Final Stroke

by Michael Beres

  “Apparently the detective thinks Marjorie Gianetti might have been murdered.”

  “Do you think there’s anything to it?”

  “Could be,” said Valdez. “There are a few entries referring to some kind of Gianetti family secret. And I assume that being who her husband was …”

  “Yes,” said Hanley, studying the sheets again. “If I were you I’d be especially interested in the nephew … Lamberti. He’s the type who

  could make trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble could he make?” asked Valdez.

  Hanley put aside the sheets of paper, put his reading glasses away, and resumed eating his salad, chewing two mouthfuls before continu ing. “Lamberti’s a typical hood. His father was tied in with the Team sters, probably helped rip off the unions and maybe even get rid of Hoffa. This Lamberti is the same. He’ll go after the money and I’m concerned that in doing so he’ll dig up more than he should. On the inside they call him Max the Fly.”

  “Why do they call him that?”

  “Because like his father he has a tendency to buzz around looking for ways to make money off old mob ventures.”

  Valdez also resumed eating and finished a mouthful before com menting. “I still don’t understand why our predecessors left Gianetti senior with all that money.”

  “It’s too late to try to understand the actions of our predecessors,” said Hanley.

  Valdez smiled. “I’m old, and I’m curious. The original plan, what was it for?”

  Hanley smiled. “It goes way back.”

  “Illinois politics or national?”

  “National,” said Hanley. “Heads could roll if it ever got out.”

  Valdez glanced toward the view of the hazy coast. “Does it have anything to do with the fix we’re all in now?”

  “What fix is that?” asked Hanley.

  “All this global warming crap. All these so-called weather-related incidents.”

  Hanley took a sip of iced tea before answering. “In a way. But then, in our world everything affects everything. You know that.”

  “This isn’t like that other incident from the nineties, the envi ronmentalists disappearing. Or is it? I wondered because of Gianetti Junior being an environmentalist.”

  “No,” said Hanley. “It’s not like that at all. But I’ll let you in on one thing. Keeping this one under wraps is more critical than keeping that episode under wraps. In fact, I would say this is the most critical matter we’ve come upon during our stroke watch.”

  “I noticed,” said Valdez, “there are references in Mrs. Babe’s notes to President Reagan and President Carter. Apparently Mrs. Gianetti said her husband was fond of Reagan but not so fond of Carter. Would I be right to suppose it has something to do with one or the other?”

  Hanley smiled as he swallowed a mouthful, then said, “One, or the other … or both.”

  “Well,” said Valdez, “I guess during my stay on this old earth I’ll never know everything that’s happened. And I take back what I said before. I’m old, but I’m not that curious. You know what frightens me most?”

  “What’s that?” asked Hanley.

  “What frightens me is that some day I’ll have a stroke or get Al zheimer’s and they’ll send in a younger guy from the Miami office so he can watch me drool and shit my pants.”

  Both men laughed and continued eating. Maria came from the kitchen with sandwiches and a fruit bowl. They waited for Maria to leave before speaking again.

  Hanley turned back to Valdez. “Since my wife passed away I’ve grown very fond of that woman.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Valdez. “At my age, and with my wife also gone, I’ve begun admiring many women. Actually, any woman over eighteen and under sixty will do.”

  They laughed again, and resumed eating their sandwiches and fruit.

  “Tell me,” said Hanley, “is the young woman from Langley good looking?”

  “I wouldn’t throw her out of bed,” said Valdez.

  “Do you think she’ll be able to spot trouble early enough to nip it in the bud?”

  “She’ll do fine,” said Valdez. “In her last report she insists being able to shadow Mrs. Babe without her knowledge. She says only an other woman could do what she’s been doing. Her reports are very de tailed. As a side note, you’ll be happy to know that Mrs. Babe and her husband have not allowed the stroke to interfere with their sex life.”

  “That’s good news,” said Hanley. “Perhaps an indication there’s still hope for us.” He glanced toward the kitchen door through which Maria had disappeared. “However, if Mr. Babe is well enough to perform in bed, I wonder how well he’s able to practice his old profession?”

  “A fair question,” said Valdez. “A question that’s at the top of the list for both our contacts.”

  Valdez left soon after lunch for his drive back to Miami, telling Hanley this might give him time for female companionship later that evening if he played his cards right. He took the Everglades Parkway back rather than the so-called scenic route he’d taken to Naples that morning. The sun was still high during the drive. A much more pleasant way to travel. He had aimed the air-conditioning vents to ward the passenger side so the dry air would not irritate his eyes. He had tuned to the Latin Rhythms music channel, its beat pounding away relentlessly like the rapid heartbeat of a younger man during sex. If the weather was lousy in Chicago he didn’t want to know. All he wanted to know was that nothing Mrs. Gianetti knew from her hus band would come around and bite someone more powerful than him in the ass. As long as that didn’t happen, and as long as real estate prices didn’t outdistance the savings he’d managed to put away by at tending to these special projects for Skinner, he’d live to be an old fart in his Naples estate and maybe get himself a Maria to wile away his time on this old earth.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  Tyrone was watching this guy by the name of Steve Babe and his babe very closely. He needed to make sure they didn’t do something stupid like go to the cops. Of course he couldn’t watch Babe’s babe all the time, only while she was here visiting. But he fig ured if the guy happened to mumble something, and if she happened to take it upon herself to tell someone else, the first thing that would happen would be the asshole from security showing up, then security from the main hospital, then maybe the cops. So far none of that had happened, and Tyrone figured as long as Babe was scared and stayed scared, and as long as his babe understood he was scared, it didn’t mat ter if he said something to her about the janitors’ closet, because she’d keep her mouth shut to protect him. Tyrone had seen the two of them over in the lounge playing grabass, and this afternoon, when he tried the door to Babe’s room, it was jammed shut from the inside. So, they were already scared, or they wanted privacy for extracurricular therapy. Either way it meant she’d be careful not to put him in danger.

  Another reason Tyrone wasn’t too worried about Babe saying anything to his babe about what happened in the janitors’ closet was because he’d already tested the waters. This afternoon, when Mrs. Babe was leaving the floor, he “accidentally” bumped into her with his laundry cart, nearly knocking her down. Then he ran around the front of the cart and did a step-and-fetch-it apology and asked if she was all right and said he remembered seeing her earlier and that he hoped her husband was better after his seizure. Someone from Holly wood should have been there to see it. That’s how good he was. Even the new Hispanic chic who someone said was doing research for the main office seemed impressed.

  Anyway, Tyrone was certain Babe hadn’t said a word about what happened in the janitors’ closet because all the time he talked to Mrs. Babe, he watched her. It was easy to read a woman’s reaction when it had to do with her man. There was no reaction, no indication Babe had said anything to her about the big old black dude in the janitors’ closet and his flat-nosed shit-for-brains partner with a short fuse.

  Besides watching Babe and checking out his wife, Tyrone had also tuned in to the Hell
in the Woods grapevine for any information on the old Gianetti lady who smashed her head on the floor outside the janitors’ closet where they found Babe. Apparently Babe had hung around with the old lady in rehab, and word was Babe was down on the first floor that night because he found out where she’d died and was checking it out. One sticky thing Tyrone lifted from the grapevine was that a Gianetti family representative had been hanging around asking questions. He’d checked a little further and found out it was an ambulance chaser who wanted a list of the old lady’s acquaintances and had talked to that new aide named Pete, to the Hispanic chic from the main office, and also to the speech therapist they call George.

  George, crazy name for a cute burr-headed white chick speech therapist. But not as cute as that other speech therapist named Bianca who wouldn’t have anything to do with him. Yeah, Bianca was one chick Tyrone would like to do some tail-twitching therapy with.

  Except for the part about Bianca, Tyrone told all this to Flat Nose the next day and assumed Flat Nose would calm down. Especially when he was informed everything was cool and there weren’t any punches being telegraphed in their direction. But Flat Nose had told DeJesus what happened during the exchange for rubber gloves and De merols, and DeJesus apparently took his own name in vain and got Flat Nose all worked up like a manager sending him out for round one.

  “I don’t know why you want to do this,” said Tyrone, as they got into his DeVille in the parking lot after his shift.

  “Because I got to prove to DeJesus we got control of the situation.”

  “How’s following her home gonna prove anything?”

  “Easy, man. I tell DeJesus we know where she lives so he knows that if this Babe guy starts to say anything, we can put the heat on. It’s a good thing he had a stroke. That way if we have to shut him up, everyone’ll figure he’s touched in the head and there’ll be no harm done once we get his wife to get him to shut the fuck up.”

  “I still say we’re wastin’ time,” said Tyrone. “I already put the heat on him in that closet, and again on the way back to his room. He had a seizure, for Christ’s sake. Did you tell DeJesus about that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what did he say?”

  “He said his ma has seizures all the time and that don’t mean a damn thing. He also said if we fuck up his business and he can’t take care of his ma no more, he won’t bother breakin’ our jaws with his big old fists. He’ll send out hits on us.”

  “Naw. He said that?”

  “Yeah, man,” said Flat Nose, his voice higher in pitch so he sounded like a little kid. “We was in his office and he picks up this basketball he keeps on his desk just to show how he can palm it and he says if his business goes down and he gets sent up for this, he can order hits from prison. He says there’s a boss bigger than him who’s in on the take but lets DeJesus run his own show. That’s how it is with these big shots on top, they keep their noses clean. Another thing DeJesus said is that this big boss has plenty of trigger men.”

  “You’re jivin’ me.”

  Flat Nose held his hand up to the light coming through the win dow, crossing his fingers. “See this? DeJesus says he and the big boss are like this because they was in the 82nd Airborne together at Fort Bragg. A couple of mean motherfuckers. You try an’ hurt one of ‘em, the other’ll get you.” Flat Nose lowered his hand from in front of the window. “He told me they killed a guy crossed them at the base. An’ to top that, because they’re still pissed at him, they let things cool a while, then invite the dead guy’s cherry out … The two of ‘em, imag ine it … And when they’re done with her, they send her to meet her old beau. And of course nobody at the base gives a shit because the guy and his cherry were minorities like us.”

  “Flat Nose, you’re full of shit.”

  “I ain’t full of shit. If DeJesus wants you dead, he’ll take care you get that way. Besides, he’s got hands bigger than yours.”

  “Hands don’t mean nothin’. Just because a guy’s got big hands doesn’t mean he’s a killer. This whole thing’s a jive.”

  “I ain’t jivin’. I can give you his exact words and that says I ain’t jivin’.”

  “So, give ‘em to me.”

  “Okay,” said Flat Nose, pumping himself up bigger in the seat. “He says, ‘Flat Nose my man’—he’s called me his man ever since he backed me in the fight game—he says, ‘You know this ain’t no spa ghetti-head organization I’m running. You know I ain’t no greaseball Italian or Greek. We’re cut from the same cloth,’ he says. ‘You and me got the same ancestors. You and me take care of our own. And, being we’re cut from the same cloth, you know if anyone fucks over my ma, they’ll get fucked over or I’ll die trying. If I go up, I got plenty of friends who owe me, especially my buddy from Bragg.’ After he says that, he reminds me about the bankrolling he done for me. I owe him, man. I know him, and he means it.”

  “I don’t know,” said Tyrone. “First you say he’ll order hits on us if his business gets closed down, then you say he’ll order hits on us if his business gets closed down, and if he goes down for it, then you say he’ll only order hits on us if we fuck over his ma. Which is it? And who’s he gonna send out on the hit? Saint Michael the archangel?”

  Flat Nose turned toward Tyrone, lowering himself in the seat and bending forward slightly as if to present less of a punching target. Be cause of the glare from parking lot lights coming in the side window, his face was in shadows. “Real funny, man. How the hell do I know exactly how he said it? I didn’t have a goddamn tape recorder going. All I know is he’s not happy and telling him we found out where Babe’s wife lives will be a good thing to tell him next time I see him.”

  “I still don’t understand why you and DeJesus got your balls in an uproar. Everybody knows the health care system is fucked and most folks try their best to screw the system when they get a chance.”

  “You still don’t get it,” said Flat Nose, shaking his head slowly. “DeJesus ain’t afraid of the short stint he’d pull for his health care business. He’s worried that if he gets caught, his ma’ll end up in one of these places. His business is the only way he can afford to take care of her. It’s a mother-son thing we’re dealin’ with. You fuck him, you’ve fucked his ma.”

  “Well,” said Tyrone, “that part I can understand.”

  “About time you understood somethin’,” said Flat Nose, turning to look out the windshield. “It’s cold in here. Start the engine and put on the goddamn heat. Why’d you buy a damn old Caddy anyhow? You should’ve gotten a Beamer like me.”

  “It’s a classic car. I had an uncle who always had a Deville and I swore when I had the dough I’d have one. Besides, I’ve seen old guys and dying guys and I can tell you it wouldn’t have mattered in the end if they drove a damn BMW when they were younger.”

  “Your trouble,” said Flat Nose, still staring out the windshield, “is that you’re fuckin’ livin’ in the fuckin’ past.”

  Tyrone could tell Flat Nose was in one of his moods. When Flat Nose got this way, the best thing to do was shut up and hope the slow burn sizzling inside that rattled brain went out. They did not speak again until Tyrone saw Babe’s wife coming out from under the lighted portico at the front entrance. When Tyrone pointed her out, Flat Nose’s mood changed.

  “You mean that’s her? You mean that chicky in those tight jeans?”

  “Yeah, that’s her.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” said Flat Nose. “I sure ain’t no woman hater like DeJesus and his buddy. Even if she’s not a member of my particular minority, that’s eatin’ stuff.”

  “She’s old enough to be your mother.”

  Flat Nose leaned forward, the shit-eatin’ grin on his face lit up by the glare of an overhead light. “What is she, forty?”

  “How the hell do I know?” said Tyrone.

  When Tyrone put his car in gear and turned down the aisle Babe’s wife had walked into, Flat Nose slapped the dashboard and Tyrone had a vision of the
air bag going off and flattening Flat Nose against the seatback.

  “Take it easy, dumb fuck!”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll take it easy. But look at that tight ass. I really like a more mature woman who’s not afraid to wear tight jeans to show off her tight ass. And look, man. She’s getting into an Audi. She’s got a beautiful ass, she’s all broken in and probably gets as slippery as an eel, and she drives a kick-ass red Audi Quattro. I’m in four-wheel drive love.”

  “Put it back in your pants, Flat Nose.” “What’s the matter? Afraid Henry’ll poke a hole in your air bag?” “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.” Tyrone followed the Audi at a distance. They got on the Eisen

  hower Expressway for a couple miles, then got off and headed south, ending up in Brookfield. When they passed a sign for Brookfield Zoo, Flat Nose said, “I knew it. She’s an animal. Fuck, man, I wish I was a leather seat in an Audi right now. I hope her husband does spout off because I sure would like to spread those thighs and threaten her with old Henry.”

  “Shut the fuck up already, Flat Nose!” “All right, all right.” “She’s parking. Write down the address of the apartment building.” “Hey, wait a minute,” said Flat Nose, turning toward Tyrone. “What?” “You said address.” “So?” “Why didn’t you just get Babe’s address down at the business office?” “Shit. How the hell do I know?” Flat Nose began laughing. “This is really funny, man. I could’ve

  been down at my chick’s place stretching leather, and instead, we come

  out here like a couple wetbacks who never heard of a phone book.” “Yeah,” said Tyrone, “but I’ll tell you what’s really funny.” Flat Nose laughed some more. “Yeah, tell me one, man. I bet it’ll

  be one of those really witty jokes you hear from college cats. Shit, he works at the place and could’ve gotten the address easy and here we is like we’re both a couple of dumb-ass niggers.”