“Right,” said Harry, “it’s now two o’clock and the book says it’s time for you to go home.”
“Correct,” said Allgood. He downed the dregs of his drink with a gulp and started to push himself away from the bar. “Uh-oh, Harry,” he said, “I think you’ve poisoned me. Legs won’t work. Look, they’ve gone as limp as a bishop’s pecker.”
“Tell you what, Jimmy,” said Harry, coming around the bar, “I might be court-martialed for doing it, but I’ll give you a hand to the door.” Putting the old soldier’s arm over his shoulder, Harry tried to hoist him from the barstool. But Jimmy’s two hundred pounds sagged limply, and his legs flailed.
“Here,” said Rizzo, “we can do it together.” Taking Allgood’s other arm, he helped pull the old man from the stool.
“It’s a miracle,” said Allgood. “I can walk again.” With ramrod back and rubbery legs, he allowed Harry and Rizzo to pilot him to the door. “I can make it home,” he said.
“Good luck, Sarge,” said Harry, shaking his hand.
“You’re a white man, Harry,” said Allgood. “It’s an honor to serve with you.” He looked at Rizzo. “You, too, Mr. Rice. I’m sorry about that story. I mean about the wops and all.”
“That’s all right,” said Rizzo. “Everybody’s somebody’s wop.” With military formality, the old man saluted them both and walked stiffly into the chilly night.
“So much for that,” said Harry, bolting the front door and drawing the drapes at the front windows.
“Now we can have that talk, eh?” said Rizzo.
Harry hadn’t forgotten, but it was still a shock to find the moment upon him. “Look,” he said in almost a pleading voice, “can’t you just—”
“No,” said Rizzo sharply. “No more fooling around, Caster. I mean business.”
“Okay, Rizzo,” Harry was surprised to hear himself say calmly, “as soon as I douse the lights out here, we can talk in my office.”
Rizzo leaned against the bar, watching Harry go around the room switching off the old converted oil lamps. One by one they died until the big room was lit only by a neon globe behind the bar.
When the last light was extinguished, Rizzo said impatiently: “That’s it, right?”
“That’s it,” said Harry. “This way.” He started toward his cubbyhole office. Rizzo fell in behind him.
Harry looked neither to left nor right as he walked slowly in the near darkness. He imagined his heart was louder than his footsteps. Behind him, Rizzo was humming a tune he didn’t recognize.
Abruptly the humming stopped.
“Hey!” Rizzo cried as a dark figure closed in from each side. The larger one gripped him around both arms while the other pulled an eyeless black hood over Rizzo’s head. “What is this?”
“Shut up.” Hoerner shoved the barrel of a pistol against the bump in the hood which was Rizzo’s nose. Lifting Rizzo off his feet, the big man Harry had never seen before wrestled him swiftly into the storeroom and set him down in a straight chair. The light went on revealing a small projector set on an up-ended whiskey case.
Not knowing what else to do, Harry followed along and stood aimlessly in the doorway as the big man swiftly tied Rizzo to the chair with his hands roped behind him. The stranger was dark haired and blocky with a dime-sized purple-black birthmark at the corner of his nose. His face was expressionless.
Hoerner, with a short-barreled black revolver in his hand, motioned Harry into the room and into a corner behind Rizzo’s left shoulder. Finished with the tying job, the big man straightened up and remained looming over Rizzo, who sat faceless and silent. Rizzo had remained mute since his first cry of surprise, partly because of Hoerner’s threat and partly because his mind was a whirl of half thoughts he kept plucking up and casting down like playing cards. He cursed himself for being stupid enough to come into the bar alone; he cursed that useless bastard, Pete, sitting in his car on the street listening to the radio. He’d just been too confident, too sure that Caster was an easy mark.
“Is your name Carlo Rizzo?” Hoerner asked softly.
Rizzo said nothing, only gave his hooded head a stubborn shake.
“Hit him,” said Hoerner, and the big man cocked his fist.
Rizzo jerked his head back as if he had been hit. “My name is Charles Rice,” he said, “and my business is with Harry Caster. It’s nothing to do with you.”
At a nod from Hoerner, the big man landed a stinging backhand blow to Rizzo’s right jaw which snapped his head back violently. Slowly Rizzo lowered his head. Harry put a hand to his own jaw, and the big man silently sucked his knuckles. Harry started to say something, but Hoerner cut him off with a sharp gesture.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Rizzo,” Hoerner said. “It’s everything to do with us. Someone very interested in Mr. Caster’s welfare has hired us to see that you leave him alone. We know everything that has happened since Monday night as well as you do, and some things better than you do.”
He paused, but Rizzo remained silent.
“It’s in your interest,” Hoerner continued, “to end this matter right here, tonight. But it’s even more in your interest, Rizzo, to drop this business right now and leave it dropped. We know you’re in bad with Montara. If you get in trouble, Rizzo, the family is not going to raise a hand to help you as long as you’re on Abe’s shit list.” Hoerner paused again. “And you are in trouble. Carlo, real trouble.” He gestured to Harry. “Lights.”
The room went dark, and Rizzo felt the hood being untied and lifted from his head. But he could see nothing. Then from behind he heard the same voice say: “Okay, roll it,” and a square of light burst out on the white wall in front of him. Rizzo tried to turn his head, but a big, hard hand gripped the back of his neck firmly.
“Eyes forward,” Hoerner ordered.
Then a string of garbled letters and numbers flashed on the improvised screen, followed by a blur which slowly focused into a black-and-white image of a low, modern house with a sloping lawn and a basement garage. It was some seconds before Rizzo realized that it was his own house. At first it seemed to be a still picture, but then a starling flew into the frame and perched on a telephone wire.
“What the hell—”
“Shut up, Rizzo. I’ll do the talking. I think you’ll recognize this scene.” The camera zoomed in on the front door. It opened, and Angela Rizzo, wearing a flowered apron, came out and stood, hands on ample hips, on the sheltered porch.
“This is Mrs. Angela Rizzo, known locally as Angela Rice.” Hoerner fell into the narrator’s deadened tones. “She’s waiting for someone.” The camera’s eye switched to a distant corner, closed in on that corner and hung there until Rizzo wanted to scream. Finally, the figure of a small girl turned the corner, and the camera slowly backed up into a long shot showing Angela Rizzo waiting on the porch and the girl slowly—so slowly—walking beside a tall wooden fence.
“This is Maria Rizzo, aged six,” Hoerner continued tonelessly, “who also goes by the name of Rice.”
“You son of a bitch,” said Rizzo, but he felt the hard hand tighten on his neck.
“Every afternoon at shortly after three o’clock, Maria Rizzo leaves All Saints Elementary School,” Hoerner said, and the scene turned to the exterior of the grammar school and the camera singled out Maria walking away from a group of friends. Rizzo watched with fascination as his daughter, looking even smaller and more vulnerable than she was, moved along, step by step, with childish preoccupation. He wanted to shout: “Faster, Maria, faster!”
“Most afternoons, Maria walks home from school alone. It takes her approximately eleven minutes to cover the two and a half blocks if she doesn’t stop along the way.”
The film cut to the girl stopped in the middle of a block petting a large calico cat sitting on a cement-block fence. The camera lingered on the girl and the cat until Rizzo knew he had to jump up and stop it. He strained against the rope but stopped when he felt the muzzle of a pistol pushed into the soft indenta
tion where his head joined his neck. Rizzo sank back but did not relax.
With relief, he saw that Maria had begun to walk again. But then something dark and bulky caught his eye at the extreme of the patch of light. Harry Caster saw it, too, and sucked in his breath audibly. That dark something was a big car, purposely out of focus, that had turned the corner behind the traipsing child and was closing in with the inexorable pace of a cruising shark. Rizzo and Harry watched in horror as the big car pulled alongside the girl and seemed to match its pace to hers. Rizzo was glassy-eyed with anticipation; Harry could hardly keep his eyes open.
To their great relief, the film cut once more to the front of Rizzo’s house. Maria had just come through the gate and had turned to fix the latch. Angela Rizzo had taken a step toward her daughter. Maria turned toward her mother and started running up the path, her arms out-flung and her hair flying. She hurled herself at her mother’s arms, and there the picture froze with Maria’s sweet, joyous face nearly filling the small screen.
The projector cut off, plunging the room once more into total darkness. “Have you seen enough, Rizzo?”
Rizzo opened his mouth, but at first he couldn’t speak. When his voice came, he didn’t recognize it. “What are you guys playing at?”
“We’re not playing at anything,” said Hoerner firmly. “We’re just telling you that if you don’t lay off Caster—from this moment on—you and yours will suffer. Someone is going to get hurt, Rizzo, and it’s going to be you. And those very close to you.”
“You’re crazy.”
“You think so? Show the man a little more film.”
In rapid progression Rizzo saw, flashing on the screen, images of his family: his son Bobby in a line waiting for a bus; his father in his tobacco shop on Prince Street; his mother, stubby and gray-haired, examining a cauliflower at a street stall; his brother Steve, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, coming down the steps of the building where the Rizzos lived in lower Manhattan. The frame stopped with Steve’s foot in mid-air.
“Turn it off,” Rizzo said involuntarily, shutting his eyes.
“Okay,” agreed Hoerner, “anything to oblige.” The projector went dark. “Put the hood back on, and let’s have some light.”
The naked bulb revealed Rizzo, hooded once more, in the straight-backed chair. He looked unreal, as lifeless as a manikin. The three men stood silently watching him for several minutes. When Hoerner spoke his voice was soft, but Rizzo jerked as if he’d been touched.
“Rizzo,” he said, “if we wanted to, we could kill you right now and solve our problem. I don’t think many people would miss you. The river is deep enough to hide a thousand small-time punks like you.”
At first Rizzo was silent, and when he did speak it was not to his anonymous persecutor. “Caster,” he said hoarsely, “are you there?” Hoerner shook his head peremptorily, and Harry shut his mouth again. He realized that he was wringing his hands, and they were wet with sweat.
“It’s got nothing to do with Caster now, Rizzo,” Hoerner said. “You’re dealing with us, not him. You’d better make up your mind. We’ll give you a minute’s silence to think things out, but then I want an answer. The right answer.”
A thin, sour silence fell on the room, and inside the hood Rizzo struggled to swallow. Without waiting for the minute to end, he croaked dryly, “Look—”
“Take the full time. Carlo. Make sure it’s what you really want to say. Get our friend a drink from the bar,” he said to Harry. “Bourbon and water, isn’t it, Rizzo?”
Harry silently left the room. But instead of going behind the bar, he crept over to the Lamplighter’s front window and peeked out at Rizzo’s car parked half in the arc of a street lamp. A dark figure was still hunched behind the steering wheel, and Harry thought he could hear the thin strains of pop music coming from the car. He dropped the corner of the dark drape and ducked behind the littered bar. Carefully, he poured out a tall glass of bourbon and water and took a little slug from the bottle himself. The ice cubes gently clicked as he walked back down the dark hallway.
Alec Hoerner pulled the hood up over Rizzo’s mouth so that he could drink. Rizzo took the drink greedily, not stopping until the ice clinked against his teeth and the bourbon and water was gone. A sigh escaped him.
“That was good, eh?” Hoerner took the glass away and let the hood fall again. “I’m getting thirsty myself, so let’s get this over with. What’s your answer, Rizzo?”
Rizzo slumped in the chair, falling against his bonds as if he had no backbone.
“Yes,” he said, “yes. I’ll lay off Caster.”
At a nod from Hoerner, the big man plucked Rizzo from the chair, his hands still bound behind him, as if he were a baby. Hoerner opened the door to the hallway, and Rizzo was hustled out of the room toward the alleyway. Harry stood where he was for a moment and then hurried to follow.
“Wait!” cried Rizzo. “No, I told you—you win. I’ll lay off. I really will. Help!”
Hoerner smoothly brought the butt of his pistol down on the back of Rizzo’s hooded head, and his small body slumped in the big man’s arms. Rizzo’s expensive shoes dragged along the rough concrete floor. In the alley, Rizzo was thrust into the far corner of the back seat of Hoerner’s black BMW sedan. The big man turned to Hoerner as if expecting further orders, but Hoerner reached into the breast pocket of his suit coat and handed him a folded banknote.
“Okay,” Hoerner said, “that’s it. You did well. Disappear.”
The big man took a quick peek at the note and slipped it into his pocket. “Thanks,” he said, turning and walking with urgency toward the darkness at the end of the alley. In a few steps he was gone.
Hoerner turned back through the rear entrance of the Lamplighter. Harry met him in the hall.
“Christ!” Harry said. “What a show. Those movies—where’s Rizzo? Is he all right?”
“He’s fine, Mr. Caster.” Hoerner smiled. “Rizzo’s taking a little nap in my car back there. But we’ll be taking him for a little ride in just a minute or two.”
“You will?” Harry asked. “Hey, you’re not going to— to—”
“No,” said Hoerner, “not right now, anyway. But I’m not going to take Mr. Rizzo for a ride. We are. You and me. And right now.”
“Me?” said Harry. “What about him—the big guy?”
“Oh, my friend had a very pressing date someplace, so I paid him off. And speaking of money, weren’t you going to have five hundred dollars for me tonight?”
“Oh, yeah.” Harry pulled a thick envelope of banknotes from the side pocket of his coat. “It’s all there.”
“I’m sure it is,” said Hoerner. “And now I’ve got something for you.” He reached into a side pocket and came up with a chromium- plated revolver much like his own. He thrust it at Harry butt first. “Do you know how to handle one of these?”
“I—I suppose so,” said Harry, reluctantly taking the revolver in both hands. “But I haven’t fired one since the Army. What do I need it for? I’m not—”
“You probably won’t need it, but it won’t hurt you to carry it. You may be glad to have a gun before this is over. Let’s get going. Rizzo’s not going to nap out there forever.” He turned and started down the hallway.
Harry followed him involuntarily. “But, where…?”
“I’ll explain later,” said Hoerner, “when we’ve got more time.”
They had reached the car. “I’ll drive. You sit in back with Rizzo and keep an eye on him. But don’t speak. The less Rizzo knows of your personal involvement in this little adventure, the more off-balance he’s going to be. If he stirs, let him know you’ve got that gun.”
“How?”
“Use your imagination,” said Hoerner, walking around the car and slipping behind the steering wheel.
Harry locked the back door of the Lamplighter and got in back with Rizzo’s slumped form. There was no sign that he was conscious yet. Harry hefted the revolver uneasily in his right hand
as the car began moving slowly down the dark alley.
10
Rizzo regained consciousness shortly after the car left the alley, but he remained huddled in the corner without moving, pretending to be still knocked out. His hooded face was pressed into the corner of the door and car seat, and his hands had begun to lose feeling. Rizzo’s brain, beyond the sharp ache, was a confusion of questions: Who are these guys? What’s their game? If they’re going to kill me, why the song and dance with the films? Who are they?
He racked his memory. Rizzo hadn’t caught even a glance at their faces, and he’d heard only one voice: that of the boss, the heavy. He’d never heard that voice before, but he’d know it if he ever heard it again. But he drew a blank now. Except for the deep sound of the engine and the whir of the tires on the road, all was quiet. Rizzo could sense that someone was in the back seat with him. That made two in the car. Was there a third?
His eyes now adjusted to the darkness, Harry sat in the opposite corner watching Rizzo’s inert form and wondering if he were really unconscious. He hefted the compact weight of the revolver. It was strange but comforting to have it in his hand. The safety was on, and out of curiosity he swung open the cylinder to see how many shells were in it. All six chambers were full. With a flick of his wrist, Harry swung the cylinder shut again.
To Rizzo, the soft, oiled click was as loud as a door slamming. He jerked involuntarily, and Harry caught the movement. He started to say something, but then remembered he was supposed to stay silent. He looked down at the gun in his hand and then instinctively reached out and shoved it against the side of Rizzo’s head. A little too hard.
“Ow!” Rizzo said without meaning to. He could have bitten off his tongue.
“So Carlo’s awake, is he?” said Hoerner. “Take it easy, Rizzo. It won’t be a long ride.”
Harry pulled the revolver away from Rizzo’s head as he felt the captive’s body go limp.
“Not talking, eh?” said Hoerner. “That’s okay. I can’t stand a lot of begging and pleading anyway.”
The Triple Shot Box (Goodey's Last Stand, Not Sleeping Just Dead & Fighting Back): Three Gritty Crime Novels Page 47