“Slight of hand, Bernie,” said Vincent. “Never missed yet.” He tapped the newspaper. “Look at those idiots, arresting those kids in droves because they puff away at pot now and then.”
“Thought you were a law and order man, Judge.”
“I am, but this is only law, not order. You mark my words, there will be an upswing of teen-aged alcoholics before this decade is out. They’ll be more destructive to society and their own families than marijuana smokers, and the idiots who push these moronic pot laws will be directly responsible. I’m going to do something about it. Maybe chair a board to make a full study of the situation.”
Bernard reached into his attaché case and drew out some papers. “The report about Al Gorden came in yesterday afternoon right after you left. I tried to reach you last night, but no answer.”
“I was at the club. Bridge night.” He put down the newspaper and took the dossier.
Al Gorden was not at all the two-bit punk he thought, but a solidly entrenched labor union attorney. The police had nothing on him except a report that he had been found mugged and robbed outside his apartment building about five years ago. His credit was excellent, his background first class, and he was on several charitable committees and drives.
Vincent sat back and tapped his reading glasses against his teeth. The report wasn’t the final word, he knew. Gorden could be what it said or sly enough to cover traces of unsavory acts. Experience had taught him that no man was lily pure, least of all a union attorney.
“What about Bill Auburn?” he asked Bernard.
“It should be in by the end of the week.”
Vincent rose and slipped on his jacket. It was going to be another long day at court. Two cases were scheduled, although he knew full well that the first one would take up most of the day even if he kept a tight rein on the proceedings.
Vincent and Bernard walked down the hallway of the apartment building out into the clear October day. The doorman waved a greeting and stepped in front of them to open the door of the car waiting at the curb. Jesse Walton, the plainclothesman assigned to Vincent, shut off the car radio and turned to the approaching men.
“Hi Judge. Hi Bernie.”
“Hello, Jesse,” said Vincent. “How’s your girl?”
“Great. The fever is down.”
Vincent stepped into the back of the car.
At that moment a sedan parked up the street moved out. In seconds it was abreast of Vincent’s vehicle.
Jesse turned his head. His eyes widened with sudden realization. “Down Judge!” he shouted, whipping out his service revolver from a shoulder holster. It was too late! A stream of bullets poured in from an automatic pistol fired by a man wearing a flesh mask in the rear of the sedan.
The first bullet caught Vincent directly in the jaw, tearing off the lower part of his face. Another bullet ripped open his neck. The third and fourth thudded into the chest, one severing an artery leading to the heart. The fifth shattered a lung. The sixth and seventh struck Bernard as he froze in a bent position to get into the car. They both entered his skull and blew his brains apart.
Jesse’s shot missed the gunman by a hairsbreadth. His second shot drilled him full in the center of the mask. At once, Jesse turned his revolver towards the driver, but the sedan was already roaring off, the driver, stunned at seeing an armed man intervene, hesitating the split second it took to kill the man in the rear. Jesse jumped out of the car. He held his revolver in both hands and fired deliberately at the driver. His third shot hit the fleeing man in the back of the head. The sedan slammed into a parked car and stopped.
Jesse whirled to the back of his own car. He took one look at Bernard, caught up a foot, and dragged him out of the way onto the pavement.
“Call the police - an ambulance! Quickly!” he shouted at the thunderstruck doorman. The doorman started running to the lobby phone. Jesse bent over Vincent and propped him upright. Vincent was conscious, in total shock. Jesse tore off his own jacket, then his shirt. He made a huge knot in the shirt and bound it around Vincent’s chest against the hole near the heart.
A man ran up carrying a black medical bag. “I’m a doctor. Can I help?”
“You sure can. I’m a police officer. This is Judge DiStephano. Save this guy, Doc.”
Jesse backed out to allow the doctor space to work, then, down to his undershirt, he shoved through the gathering crowd to the sedan. Both men were dead. He ripped off their flesh masks and took a long, hard look at their faces. Pounding feet sounded behind him. A traffic patrolman raced up. “Detective Walton,” said Jesse, drawing out his badge. “Watch this car.”
“Okay,” said the patrolman.
Jesse trotted to Vincent’s car. “Get back all of you,” he growled at the people crowding around the dead and wounded men. A police sedan roared up with siren blaring. Two officers jumped out. Jesse flashed his badge. “Open up the street,” he told them. “An ambulance should be on its way.” The two officers began shepherding the crowd to one side. Jessie leaned into the car. “How’s he holding, Doc?”
The doctor had removed Vincent’s upper clothing, placed compresses on the jaw and neck, and was stuffing gauze into the chest wounds. “Bad. Real bad. That ambulance had better get here soon. Where’s the nearest hospital?”
“Mercer’s a few blocks away.”
“Get in touch. Notify them of the injuries. He has major arterial bleeding from chest, neck, face, and possibly a hole in the lung.”
“Okay, Doc.” He motioned over a policeman to radio the message.
The wail of an ambulance sounded. Soon it rushed up. In seconds Vincent was placed on a stretcher and wheeled inside the wagon. It took off at once, its siren demanding clear passage. It passed two more police cars screaming up to assist.
Jesse reached onto the front seat for cigarettes in his jacket pocket. His hand shook uncontrollably as he tried to light a match. The doctor lit it for him, eyeing him closely.
“What did you say your name is?” he asked.
“Walton. Jesse Walton.”
The doctor held out his hand to the heavy-set black man. “It’s a pleasure to know you, officer. And I’m sure as hell going to tell it to everyone I know.”
The hospital had a team of surgeons waiting as the ambulance raced up. The signal had gone out to everyone involved, from the administrator to the scrub nurse, that a V.I.P. was coming in. As the surgeon in charge leaned over Vincent, a technician rolled up a cart to draw blood for typing. “Take it from the wounds!” snapped the surgeon, motioning to rush the stretcher into the operating room. As it was pushed along, the technician took what samples he could get from the blood trickling down Vincent’s chest.
They shifted Vincent to the table. “Art, tie off those bleeders in the jaw and neck,” ordered the surgeon in charge to an assisting surgeon as he slipped into sterile gloves. “Whitey,” he called.
The anesthetist was inserting a needle into Vincent’s arm. “Yeah?” he said quietly.
“Prepare for massive infusions.” He held out a gloved hand. “Scalpel!” he said crisply. The surgical scrub nurse slapped a knife into his palm. With a swift, sure movement, he incised the skin from the base of Vincent’s neck to his navel. He threw the scalpel to the side. “Give me a saw. I’m cracking the sternum.”
Paul DiStephano was the first to learn of Vincent’s injuries. The doorman told Vincent’s housekeeper, who, shocked to the core, managed to phone the Doninis in Boston. The butler there relayed the news to Vito’s communication center, where the reaction was immediate. Vito’s personnel assistant radioed the jet. He learned that Vito’s party had landed and was enroute by vehicle to the estate they had rented, and should arrive within the half hour. The personal assistant ordered the pilot to prepare for an immediate return trip, then phoned the estate. The butler there took the call, stating he would have Mr. Donini phone his communications center the moment he came.
The personal assistant then contacted Paul at his office in the Pent
agon. Ten minutes later Paul was in his car racing for the airport. Shortly after he had his ticket and a seat confirmed for New York, Kristine rushed up by taxi with a packed suitcase. She sat quietly beside him, holding his hand until the loudspeaker paged his flight, then kissed him tenderly goodbye. In her forty-seven years of life, and her twenty years of knowing Paul, she had never seen a face so full of sadness - and of savage fury.
One of Vito’s young, efficient assistants was waiting with a limousine at the airport in New York. He explained that Vincent was still on the operating table, his condition critical. The young man paused. When he felt the moment was right, he mentioned that a room for Paul was reserved at the Waldorf. Also, that he should not concern himself with his suitcase. It would be taken to the hotel.
By the time Paul reached the hospital, the staff there had long been informed by Vito’s people that Vincent was not just a V.I.P. but was beyond classification. This explanation had been punctuated by the arrival of two of the leading heart and lung specialists in New York, who sped to the operating room to join the team working frantically over the shattered body.
The administrator of the hospital met Paul at the entrance. He said things were still touch and go. He invited Paul to wait in the V.I.P. lounge, promising to bring reports every ten minutes.
Vito’s young man remained close to Paul, quiet, unobtrusive, signaling for coffee when he thought Paul might want some and sending out for the special cheroots when he noticed the box almost empty. The administrator returned every ten minutes to report as promised.
Shortly after the third report, the surgeon in charge walked in, his face lined and weary.
“I’m sorry, General. Your brother is dead. We did all that was possible.”
Paul flinched. Regardless of the extent of Vincent’s wounds, he had been on the table with him, fighting, never for a moment giving thought to defeat.
“I would like to see him,” he said softly.
The administrator led him to the operating room. The overhead surgical lights had been turned off, the instruments wheeled away, a few blood soaked gauzes lay on the floor. Pushed to one side was the body covered by a green sheet. Paul lifted the sheet himself. They had not bothered to close the huge opening in his chest nor wipe away the congealed blood from his face.
Paul could scarcely breathe. He forced in a deep gulp of air, his eyes as hard as agates. “Clean him up!” he snapped. “And sew him up, goddamnit.”
The administrator said very quietly, “He was left like that, General, because an autopsy must now be performed. The body will not be treated with disrespect.”
Paul calmed down at once. “I’m sorry,” he said. Then he walked out of the room.
At the funeral of Maria, there had been profound sorrow. For Junior’s interment, there was shock. Michael’s burial demonstrated the absurdity of waste. But for Vincent, there was implacable hatred and fury. It oozed out of each of the DiStephanos as they sat silent in church during mass and while the eulogy was spoken, and in a light rain as his body was lowered into his grave. Ettore stood tall, hard-faced. To his right were Paul, Rose, Vito and Bert. To his left were Anthony, Bob, Carol and Eleanor. But a wide space was deliberately left open between the priest and his nephew. Hundreds of people came to the interment, and the word passed like wildfire what that open space meant. Dominic stood there. His presence was felt as vividly as if he was actually there. It was a space not of mourning, but a space of war.
They buried Vincent between Beatrice and his oldest son, the one who had come into this world ten minutes before his brother. When all was ended, the family stood yet another minute, then Ettore kneeled and whispered a few words to his dead son. When he rose, Paul went to one knee and gave his pledge, and one after the other the family followed suit. All but Anthony. He stood alone until all had finished, then he went to his knees, his body racked with grief as he prayed for the soul of his brother.
Once all the formalities were over and those who visited the house to present their sympathies had gone, the family collected in the kitchen.
Paul motioned with a thumb to the outside of the window. “They are still there.”
“Who?” asked Carol.
“Detectives,” said Bob. “There were a number of them at the funeral.”
“I wonder whether they are watching us or protecting us,” mused Carol.
Paul turned to Ettore. “All right, Papa. What do we do now?”
Ettore looked at Rose and Carol. “First of all, I want you girls to go home.”
“I won’t go, Papa,” said Rose firmly. “If you order me to go, I’ll take a room in town.”
“Ditto, Papa,” said Carol. “Except you,” she said, pointing her finger at Eleanor.
“But, Mama, I want to help. I’m not a child, you know.”
“Bert too,” said Ettore.
“Aw, Grandpa. I can take phone messages and run errands. I’m almost sixteen now.”
“I know, Bert, and I thank both you and Eleanor, but off you go. As for you girls,” he aimed his forefinger at Rose and Carol, “you can stay, but don’t ever go out alone.” He looked over at Anthony. “Tony, I wish you’d go into the living room while we talk.”
Anthony let out his pent up breath. “I think I’ll leave for the university now.”
“All right, Tony. Thank you for understanding.”
Anthony rose to his feet. “I don’t understand, Papa. There’s just nothing I can do to deter you.” He blessed all in the room. “God keep you and protect you.” Tears swam in his eyes as he walked out.
There was a moment of silence as they thought of Anthony the priest, then Ettore got back to business. “We’ve got to kill Bonazzi. There are two reasons. First, he made an attempt to murder Dom, and second, he killed Vincent. Does anyone at this table doubt it?” No one spoke. “There are two ways to get him. We can devise a plan to avoid being implicated or we can step out and do the job. I say we should try the former. Do you agree?” They all concurred. “Paul, you work out a plan. But let’s not fool ourselves; Bonazzi is going to take all precautions, so trying to get him in his house or on the way to his office may backfire. Does anyone have an idea to mention to Paul?”
“Why don’t we try to bribe someone in his organization,” said Bob. “Someone who knows where he goes.”
“Not bad,” said Ettore. “It’s worth thinking over.”
“I suggest we put him under investigation first, Papa,” said Vito. “There’s always the possibility we may pick up some of his habits.”
The doorbell rang. Mario answered it and appeared at the kitchen door. “That Lieutenant McPherson, Ettore.”
“Hmmm, I can guess what he wants. Come along Paul, Vito.”
The three men walked into the living room. Lieutenant McPherson was standing in the hallway with the detective who had accompanied him the previous time.
“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” asked Ettore.
“I want to express my deepest sympathies for your loss of the Judge.” Ettore nodded his thanks. “Also, I’d like to have a talk with you.”
“Come into the sitting room.”
When they had become settled, McPherson pulled away at his nose. “I passed on the message you asked me to give Bonazzi.”
“Did you talk to him?” asked Ettore.
“No. I couldn’t get past his secretary at the office and his watchman at home. But I was able to make contact with Mickey Giannotti, his Chief of Security, and gave it to him. Giannotti was surprised as hell to hear that Chet Bonazzi might have committed suicide. Anyhow, I’m sure Bonazzi got the message.”
“If that is all, I want to thank you.”
“Well, Mr. DiStephano, it isn’t quite all. I don’t think there are a dozen people in Chicago who aren’t aware that an explosion is about to take place. There’s been half a dozen top-level meetings downtown about it already, and I’ve been sent here to tell you to cool it.”
“How about Bonazzi. Will you tell
him to .... cool it, too?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“It won’t make any difference.”
“So why tell me?”
“Like I said, I was told to. Now that I’ve done so, so long and good luck.” He got to his feet.
“Lieutenant,” said Paul softly. “You’ve got more to say.”
McPherson pulled vigorously at his nose while he hesitated. He turned to his detective. “Matty, how about waiting for me outside.” The man left the room at once. McPherson stood at the door watching until Matty had gone out of the house. “Now, if any of you even whisper that I said anything, I’ll bust you for making a false statement. Okay?” They nodded. “As you know, Bonazzi has been big beans around here for twenty-five years or more. We all know he handles Mafia money. That’s okay with us because it’s all legit. Everyone also knows it’s a dodge for the Internal Revenue boys, but that’s not our concern. During these twenty-five years, there’s been a score or more rumors that he’s tied in with drugs and prostitution and gambling and all that. We’ve followed up so many of those rumors without success that we are convinced he is clean. Anyhow, about three, four years ago we picked up a weasel for pick pocketing. This is usually a light rap, so I was surprised to hear that a heavyweight shyster looked in on the case. He bailed the weasel out in two bats of an eye, then he put muscle on the court to get the dip off with a fine and a suspended sentence. For the first time in ever so long things were a little slow in the department, so I decided to check up on the weasel, to find out why he deserved the heavyweight lawyer.” McPherson lowered his voice. “It seems this guy’s sister is a raving beauty who was set up in a fancy apartment by our friend Bonazzi. Last week, after I gave the message to Giannotti, I snooped around that apartment house. The girl is still there, and the man she entertains now and then is about sixty-five years old with dark hair. I won’t say any more than that, because I never set anyone up in my life. And I’m not going to mention names. But it’s a damned shame that a nice family like yours has all this trouble with people like the other side, and our department is unable to do anything about it.” He reached into his pocket, took out a crumpled piece of paper, and dropped it casually on the table. “So long.” Without waiting for anyone to answer, he left the room.
I Contadini (The Peasants) Page 29