Natalie's Dilemma: a Frank Renzi crime thriller (Frank Renzi novels Book 7)

by Susan Fleet

  Why was she defending him? Didn't she know that he'd murdered Angelique, the mother of his son? How could she not? For days it had been the lead story on TV and front page news in the newspapers. But she was just a girl, too young to realize it could also happen to her, caught up in the excitement of having a rich and powerful drug lord pay attention to her. Did she think King Rock would protect her?

  He had to talk her down, had to make her understand that King Rock only cared about himself.

  “Stop worrying about your man and start worrying about yourself.”

  Her eyes darted around wildly. “You're gonna shoot me too. I know it! Fucking cops.”

  Behind him, he heard sirens, louder as they turned onto the street.

  The girl heard them too. She turned her head to look. A fraction of an opening but it was all he needed. He leaped at her, grabbed her arm and ripped the Glock out of her hand.

  “Noooo,” she wailed. “Don't arrest me. I didn't do nothing!”

  Waves of relief swept over him. He had the gun. She couldn't shoot him. Behind him, the sirens whooped and stopped. He turned and saw two uniformed officers get out of a squad car, weapons drawn.

  Not good. If he didn't watch out, they'd shoot him. “I'm police!” he shouted. “Homicide Detective Frank Renzi! Don't shoot!”

  “Let go of the girl! Keep your hands where we can see them.”

  He spread his hands, holding his SIG by the barrel in one, the Glock in the other. The uniforms, one black, one white, approached him warily.

  “King Rock is over there on the ground, wounded,” Frank said. “I disarmed him. His weapon is lying in the street beside the Honda. Do me a favor and cuff him.”

  “Holy shit!” said the white officer. “King Rock? You got him?”

  He smiled as they lowered their weapons. “About time, don't you think?”

  “Who's the girl?” said the black officer.

  He turned and looked at her. Bent over the hood of the SUV with her face in her hands, she was sobbing as though her heart would break. Better heartbroken than dead.

  “King Rock's new girlfriend,” he said. “An innocent bystander for the most part. She wanted to stand by her man. I convinced her not to.”

  CHAPTER 25

  SUNDAY 1:45 PM

  “Grande,” Bianca said, pointing at the riverboat.

  “Yes,” Natalie said, smiling as Bianca danced around, her face flushed with excitement. “A very big boat.”

  Years ago her mother had taken her for a ride on the Natchez, but she'd forgotten how big it was, as long as five street cars end-to-end, with three huge decks stacked one above the other. Gleaming white railings topped with red paint lined each deck, and jutting off the stern was a huge red paddle wheel, powered by steam.

  Earlier at lunch, when Catarina had complained about having nothing to do, Orazio surprised them. He had booked them on a two-hour riverboat cruise so they could see the sights along the Mississippi River.

  Now they were standing in line behind dozens of other passengers waiting to board. Festive and smiling, Catarina had on a short-sleeved lavender dress and high heels. No diamond necklace or earrings today. Tommy was wearing a dark pinstriped suit and a white shirt, but no tie.

  Orazio stood off to the side by himself. For the first time since she'd met him, he wasn't wearing a suit. Over black running pants, he wore a black sweatshirt with gold fleur-de-lis on the front. The outfit revealed his muscular arms and barrel chest. To the casual observer, he might be a tourist or a native, but she knew better. He was the vicious killer who'd murdered Bianca's mother. She couldn't wait to get away from him.

  The temperature was in the sixties, but thick clouds blocked the sun, and the air felt cool. She had on her long-sleeved running suit, but Bianca had insisted on wearing her pink Hello Kitty shirt and her new white pants. When the boat steamed down the river, the wind would make the air feel much cooler. A breeze brought the aroma of buttered popcorn from souvenir stalls near the ticket office. Perhaps they would have something to keep Bianca warm.

  Annoyed that she had to ask permission, she went to Orazio and gestured at the kiosks.

  “I want to buy a long-sleeved shirt for Bianca, and a hat to shade her from the sun.”

  Gazing at her with granite-hard eyes, he pursed his lips. After a moment he pulled two twenties out of his pocket and said, “Okay. Buy me a hat, too.”

  “What size?”

  With a faint smile, he said, “Large.”

  Of course. Your head is as big as your over-sized ego.

  She jogged past the line of passengers behind them waiting to board and stopped at a kiosk that sold souvenirs, clothing and hats. She chose a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt for Bianca. At the hat stand, she picked out a Saints ballcap for Orazio, a white broad-brimmed straw hat for Bianca and a larger one for herself. It seemed unlikely that anyone on the Natchez would recognize her, but why take chances? Every police station in New Orleans had a wanted-poster with her photograph.

  She took the items to the clerk and said, “Could you add a bottle of sun lotion, please?”

  “Sure,” the girl said. “That comes to sixty-eight dollars.”

  She used the twenties Orazio had given her and paid the rest with her own money. She put on her hat and tucked Bianca's hat under her arm. The clerk put Bianca's sweatshirt, the suntan lotion and the Saints cap in a plastic bag, and told her to have a nice day.

  She returned to Bianca and gave her the hat.

  “Beautiful!” Catarina exclaimed. “Put it on. You look bellissimo!”

  Bianca smiled and said in English, “Thank you.” To Natalie, she said, “White hat.”

  “Yes. White hat.” Aware that Orazio was watching, she brought the Saints ball cap to him.

  He put it on, tugged on the brim and said, “Very good. It goes with my shirt.” When she turned to leave, he said, “No change?”

  Irritated, she said, “No. I paid for my hat and the suntan lotion with my own money. It came to sixty-eight dollars. Would you like to see the receipt?”

  His dark eyes hardened. “No. Laura, why must you always be so …” He paused, groping for the English word he wanted. “Disagreeable.”

  Because I want to go away and never see you or your brother or John Conti again.

  To placate him, she forced a smile. “Thank you for getting us out of the house. Bianca gets restless when she has to stay indoors.”

  When she returned to Bianca and Catarina, the calliope let out a raucous blast and honked a lively tune on its massive pipes. Bianca and Catarina held their hands over their ears. “So loud!” Catarina shouted.

  Natalie knew why but didn't bother to explain to Catarina. When steamboats began ferrying passengers up and down the Mississippi after the Civil War, some of the boats had gambling parlors. To alert the gamblers that the boat was about to depart, the calliope belted out a tune that could be heard all over the city.

  The line straggled forward and they boarded the boat. On the lower deck, wire-mesh chairs lined the rail. Eager to celebrate with a drink, Catarina and Tommy went to the lounge on the second deck. Orazio had disappeared. She was relieved not to be cooped up in the house, but she had the uneasy feeling that Orazio had his own reasons for taking them on the cruise.

  She took Bianca's hand and led her to the stern to watch the paddle wheel. As they stood at the rail, the steam engines groaned to life. The enormous red wheel slowly began to turn, and water cascaded off the paddles. Bianca pointed at the water and said, “Canal?”

  “No, it's a river. The Mississippi.”

  Bianca burst out laughing. “Mississippi, Mississippi, Mississippi,” she said, jumping up and down in rhythm with the words, her dark eyes full of delight.

  Seeing the happiness on her face lifted Natalie's spirits, calming the tense knot in her stomach. Forget Orazio and John Conti. Have fun and enjoy the day. In Italian she said, “When I was a little girl my mother took me for a ride on this boat.”

  “
How old were you? Older than me?”

  “A little bit older. I was six.”

  Bianca's expression grew solemn. “Before your mother died.”

  “Yes. We had a great time.” Unwilling to dwell on the past, she said, “It's cold with the wind blowing. Let's put on your Mickey Mouse sweatshirt.” She helped her put on the sweatshirt, but as Bianca watched the paddle wheel, Natalie's eyes misted with tears.

  Every October on the anniversary of her mother's death, she built a Vietnamese shrine in her bedroom: fresh flowers, scented candles and a small bowl of fresh fruit. Vietnamese families put framed photographs of their ancestors in the shrine. All she had was a worn snapshot of her mother. She placed it in the shrine, lighted sticks of incense and spoke to the spirit gods. For many years she had vowed to avenge her mother's murder. She had, but it brought no comfort, just a bleak empty feeling. And now the snapshot of her mother was gone. Conti had taken it.

  “What's that?” Bianca asked, pointed at a little boy holding a box of popcorn.

  “Popcorn,” Natalie said. “Let's go inside and get some.”

  She took Bianca up to the second floor lounge. At the end of the bar a machine spewed popcorn into a large glass container. While Bianca watched this, fascinated, Natalie bought a big tub of popcorn.

  “Popcorn,” she said, and popped a piece in her mouth.

  Bianca did the same. After a moment she smiled and said, “Pupcorn,” mispronouncing the word. “I love pupcorn.”

  “Good,” she said. “Let's go outside and eat it while we enjoy the sights.”

  Maybe Orazio was right. She should stop being angry and enjoy small pleasures while she could. Tomorrow would be a day fraught with peril. Avoid Orazio and the guards. Attract no attention. Keep Bianca amused, put her to bed at nine and hope she fell asleep quickly.

  Her palms dampened with sweat. Then she had to climb out her bedroom window and meet Pak Lam's contact. Get what she needed, run back to the house and get back into her bedroom.

  So many things could go wrong. Any one of them could be deadly.

  _____

  Resting his forearms on the railing, Orazio stood on the second deck looking down at the nanny and the kid. They were easy to spot in their silly white hats, not that he needed to worry. They weren't going anywhere, nor were Tommy and Catarina, seated in the lounge by a window, enjoying their drinks and the view. With his four companions contained, he was free to roam.

  No legitimate retail store would pay cash for stolen jewelry, especially without papers, but every large city had gangsters eager to fence stolen goods. He didn't trust the blacks to keep quiet. If Tick-Tock found out about the stolen jewelry, a serious breech of family protocol, he might have someone kill him. However, given Silvano's assessment of Vietnamese gangs, Orazio figured they would have no contact with the Rotondo Family.

  After the sit-down, he had driven to Saigon Canteen, a Vietnamese restaurant at one end of a strip mall on Veterans Boulevard. To the left of the door, a dozen tables filled a small dining room. Behind a takeout counter on the right, a Vietnamese punk with hooded eyes greeted him. Orazio told him he had some fine jewelry; did he know someone who might buy it? The punk told him to wait and disappeared into a back room. When he returned, they set up a meet. He'd told the punk to meet him today on the riverboat, a neutral place where he couldn't be ambushed.

  As the Natchez floated past Jackson Square, Orazio noticed a large cathedral with one tall spire flanked by two shorter ones. Impressive, but it did not compare to the cathedral in Venice, not that he ever attended Mass. He'd probably rot in Hell for his many sins. If there was a Hell.

  Last year during his visit to New Orleans he had contemplated living here. Now, he just wanted to complete his business and fly back to Venice. He checked the time. 2:30. The punk was probably waiting for him, but as Father always said: For important negotiations, never arrive early. Keep your adversary waiting. Make him wonder.

  Enjoying the cool breeze and fresh air, he strolled past the lounge and mounted the stairway to the top deck. The wind was stronger here, whipping the canvas of the canopy that sheltered passengers. Only a handful of people stood beneath it.

  His adversary was waiting in the far corner, Nguyen “Killjoy” Ng, the son of the gangster who owned the Saigon Canteen. Orazio was familiar with the colloquialism: killjoy, one who spoils the pleasure of others. A relatively benign term, but with Vietnamese gangs, it had a more dire meaning. Killjoy Ng didn't spoil the pleasure of others, he killed them.

  The punk gazed at him, expressionless, as Orazio approached him.

  He was only a boy, no more than twenty and a midget compared to him, almost a foot shorter. His glossy black hair was cut short, and pock-marks disfigured the cinnamon-brown skin of his cheeks. But his almond-shaped eyes reflected his calling: Killer eyes, flat and without emotion, gazing at Orazio as though he were no more important than a waiter. He'd fix that.

  “You are interested in diamond jewelry,” Orazio said.

  “Possibly. If it is of good quality.”

  “You have the authority to make the deal?”

  Killjoy grew still, like a cobra contemplating its next meal. “Do not insult me. You want to fence some jewelry, or not?”

  The insolent swine. “Answer the question. Do you have the authority to cut a deal, or not?”

  “My father will pay no more than thirty-five cents on the dollar. And only if the diamonds are good quality.”

  “The quality is excellent. Enough to warrant fifty cents on the dollar.”

  “Not gonna happen. You want that much, sell them yourself.” Killjoy smiled, displaying crooked teeth. “But you want to dump them fast. They are stolen, right? No papers.”

  Orazio considered. Yes, he wanted to sell them fast, and yes, they were stolen. But it galled him to take so little for such fine jewelry.

  “Forty cents on the dollar or no deal. I have brought a sample.”

  He took a drawstring bag out of his pocket and showed him the three-string diamond necklace. Even in the faint sunlight, the diamonds glittered.

  “Huh,” Killjoy grunted. “A fine-looking necklace. But my father will examine it more closely.”

  He returned the necklace to the drawstring bag and put it in his pocket. “I have more items that are equally fine. In a store, they would sell for a million dollars.”

  “But you did not go to a store. You came to us. My father will make the final decision. After we get off this boat, bring the jewelry you wish to sell to Saigon Canteen.”

  “Your father will have cash ready for me?”

  “Have no fear. My father will have plenty of cash.”

  “Good. I need time to get the rest of the jewelry. Tell your father I will see him at five o'clock.”

  “Fine,” Killjoy said.

  Orazio looked over the rail. Two decks below them, the nanny and the kid were sitting on deck chairs. The nanny had removed her hat and turned her face up to the sun. “See that woman down there?” he said. “Is she Vietnamese?”

  Killjoy leaned over the rail. After a moment, he said, “Looks like it to me, part Vietnamese anyway. She's a looker. You know her?”

  “Tell your father I will be there at five o'clock,” Orazio said, and walked away.

  The insolent swine asked too many questions. But he had confirmed what Orazio had suspected. Laura claimed to be Chinese-American. She wasn't. She was Vietnamese. According to Silvano, the Vietnamese were a violent people. Vicious and untrustworthy.

  He would make sure that she never left the house. For the next few days, the treacherous Vietnamese nanny would be his prisoner. Even if he was there, he would tell the guards to watch her, day and night.

  Soon he would fly back to Venice.

  Laura and the kid would not.

  CHAPTER 26

  SUNDAY 5:00 PM

  Driving west on Veterans Boulevard, Orazio slowed as he passed the Saigon Canteen. Lights blazed in the front windows and a half-dozen cars w
ere parked outside.

  “Where you go?” Tommy said in his fractured English. “That is the restaurant, there.”

  “I want to see who else is around.”

  He pulled into the parking lot at the other end of the strip-mall and drifted past the one-story, brick-front building. The auto parts store on the end was closed. Beside it an insurance office was also closed. No lights in the store selling eyeglass frames beside the restaurant. Good. The Smith & Wesson .22 caliber revolver inside his jacket was small and easily concealed, and deadly at close range. If he had to use it, only the people in the restaurant would hear it. He backed Silvano's SUV into the handicapped space near the door of the Saigon Canteen, nose out for a quick getaway.

  Speaking Italian to make sure Tommy understood, he said, “I do not trust these Vietnamese gangsters. Be ready. If I say Go, shoot them, understand?”

  Grim-faced, Tommy said, “What if they shoot first?”

  He locked eyes with his brother. “Do as I say. You hear me say 'Go!' shoot them immediately and shoot to kill. Our lives may depend on it.”

  “What about you?” Tommy said, as obstinate as ever. “Are you going to shoot?”

  Orazio patted his jacket. “My weapon is here. Do not worry. I will shoot and I will not miss. But perhaps this will not be necessary. Be strong, Tommy. We go inside now.”

  He'd known all along that using a Vietnamese gang to fence the stolen jewelry involved certain risks. Silvano said they were more vicious than the blacks, and Silvano was seldom wrong in such matters. But during his years as enforcer for the Antonetti Family, Orazio had become skilled in his assessment of people. Only twice had he been mistaken. His body still bore the scars, but he had learned from his mistakes.

  The men who'd crossed him had died in excruciating pain.

  A deep calm settled over him as they left the SUV and approached the Saigon Canteen. He felt confident in his assessment of Killjoy. The punk was full of bluster, but when it came to life or death, he would be no match for Orazio Antonetti. Of this he was certain.