Newman, as she now thought of him, seemed to smile and nod. Delighted, Cateyo went on with the bath she was giving him. As usual, when she soaped and rinsed his penis, it rose triumphantly, rampantly. As usual, she suppressed it with a pinch at the base.
“I believe I'll call you Paul,” she announced, absentmindedly soaping his penis so that it stiffened again. “As in Newman.” She giggled. “But more important, as in St. Paul. He was a new man. When his eyes were opened to the Lord, he became a new man. You are like Paul.”
Suddenly, the new man groaned and his penis erupted. Semen flew several feet into the air. Cateyo's mouth fell open and her eyes grew wide. “Good lord,” she whispered.
8
Lady Killer
Humphrey DiEbola wasn't really surprised not to hear from Mario. He'd had no great estimate of the man's abilities. His contacts inside the Detroit Police Department had duly reported the discovery of the man's body on a mountainside in Montana. He was interested to hear that Mulheisen had gone to Montana, presumably to investigate the circumstances of this death, but there was no additional information. Apparently, Mulheisen had looked into it, but thus far nothing seemed to have come of the investigation. Perhaps he thought that it wasn't really related to the death of Carmine.
Humphrey phoned his major contact in the department, a certain precinct commander. He disliked this little creep, but he was generally useful, so he was disappointed when the precinct commander didn't have much information on Mulheisen's activities.
“Somebody's pulling strings again,” Commander Buchanan said petulantly. “They're trying to send Mulheisen on some kind of extended vacation out west, detached from the Ninth. It's politics. The bastard has always been in thick with the powers.”
“What powers?” Humphrey asked, trying to quietly slurp up a fiery stew of fish, clams, and tiny octopuses. He was enjoying a quiet evening at home, sitting at the kitchen counter on a stool while his chef, Pepe, puttered about.
“The mayor, the commish, the governor . . . Hell, his old man practically ran the Democratic Party, in the old days.”
“I didn't know that,” Humphrey said. “So, how come Mul is still a sergeant? That don't sound like pull to me.”
“He's lazy. He won't take the lieutenant's exam, and they all cover for him downtown. He says he prefers to work in the field instead of behind a desk, but I know better.”
“That don't sound lazy,” Humphrey said. “So what's he doing these days?”
“They're talking about some big deal,” the commander complained. “I didn't even hear about it until he was already out west, on this other thing. Some regional task force that the Feds are funding, or maybe it's the states themselves. That's gotta be political.”
“What is this task force?” Humphrey asked, tearing off a chunk of fresh Italian bread and slathering it with butter.
“Northern Tier Crime Task Force, or something like that. It's all the upper Midwest states, extending out to the Rockies. Maybe they think the mob is moving in on the north country, or something.”
Humphrey smiled. “There'd have to be more people.” Privately, he knew that the mob wasn't moving in on anybody these days. They were too busy trying to hang on to what they once had. He wondered if it didn't have something to do with a rise in activity from the West Coast, from so-called Chinese Mafia activities. From what he'd heard, there was getting to be an awful lot of money coming in from the Far East, a lot of muscle. He'd heard it had something to do with the impending shutdown of Hong Kong, when the mainland Chinese took over. The big operators there were looking for new fields. Seattle was hot, he'd heard. Maybe it extended inland.
“You should be happy,” Humphrey said, “you got him out of the precinct.”
“Oh sure, but it isn't permanent, even if it comes off. So in the meantime I'm shorthanded and you got people coming in every day, they want to talk to Mulheisen, won't talk to nobody else. You know, a lot of people are really fooled about this guy.”
“Sure, sure,” Humphrey said, “but basically, he's just gone to Butte, about this so-called hit man. Is that it?”
“So far,” the commander agreed, “but what is it? It's just some guy they found in a ditch, so Mulheisen gets a free vacation, paid by the taxpayers, and the Ninth has to carry his load. And then if this Northern Tier bullshit flies, who knows how long he'll be gone?”
No satisfying some people, Humphrey thought, but he hastened to say, “It's a damn shame. No wonder our taxes are so high.” DiEbola himself went to some lengths to provide himself with a reasonable-looking income, so he could pay taxes and present a legitimate appearance. He thought he should appear to have an income of about a hundred thousand or so and pay all the appropriate taxes.
The next day he sent Rossamani out for the Yak.
“Any more cards from Helen?” Humphrey asked.
“No, but there was a phone call,” the big lump said. “Missus Sid said it was from Nelly.”
“Where did she call from?”
“I dunno. Maybe California?”
“Why do you think that, Roman?” Humphrey asked. “Did she mention anything?”
The Yak frowned, concentrating. “I dunno why I thought that. Maybe ‘cause she called so late? After Missus Sid went to bed?” His face lit up with understanding. “Liddle Helen should know her ma goes to bed at nine. It was after ten when she called. I answered the phone. I to'd her it was late. And she said she forgot the time difference. That'd be California, wooden it?”
“Maybe,” Humphrey said. “You did good. But why didn't you tell me she called? When was this?”
“It was a week ago, I think,” the Yak said. “You didden say nothing about phone calls, F—, er, Mr. Diablo.”
“Just call me Humphrey, old friend. Well, let me know next time, whenever you hear from Helen, telephone or otherwise. Okay? Anyway, Montana is two time zones away, isn't it?” He turned to Ros-samani for confirmation, but Rossamani just shrugged.
“Well,” the Yak offered hopefully, “she said it was warm where she was. She to'd Missus Sid that. Missus Sid was afraid she'd be cold in Montana, in November.”
“But Helen didn't say where she was, just that it was warm there? Did she say she would be in touch again?”
“Yanh. She said she might be home for Christmas.”
“Well, that's good, that's good,” Humphrey said. “Children should come home for Christmas. The next time Helen calls I want you to tell her to call me. I understand her, Roman. I've known her since she was a baby. I'm worried about her, old friend. It worried me that she would go off with this guy, with Joe. I liked Joe, you know, I thought I could trust him. But it looks like he was not the man we thought he was. But I don't blame little Helen for this. You tell her that. Tell her to call Uncle Umberto. Remember she used to call me Unca Umby? She was the only one who ever called me that. But don't tell her what I said about Joe. That's between you and me. So, she made a mistake about Joe, we all did. I don't hold it against her. Listen, does Mrs. Sid still do the big dinners on Sunday?”
“She kind of give that up after Big Sid died,” the Yak said, “but I think she'll do something for Christmas. She's been feeling a little better. Some of her friends have been coming over. Yanh, I think they'll prob'ly have a big Christmas.”
“That's great,” Humphrey enthused. “You keep me posted, Roman. Maybe I'll drop by, if it's all right with Mrs. Sid.”
The Yak looked a little doubtful, but he said he'd run it by the widow. “Missus Sid don't have nothing against you, Humphrey,” he said, “it was just Carmine. But I dunno.”
When he had gone, Humphrey asked Rossamani, “Who do we have? What kind of hitters do we have? I don't want no more of Mitch's pricks. This is our business, our job. Do we have any kind of local boy?”
Rossamani pondered. He was an able enough man, a born henchman, shrewd but conservative. Privately he had always been skeptical of Humphrey's way of running things. He had liked it better when Humphrey only
advised Carmine, who tended to shoot first and ask questions later. Humphrey was too much of a thinker for him. “Well, we got half a dozen kids over in the house,” he motioned with his head toward the refurbished flats that lay within the Krispee Chips well-fenced grounds. These flats were occupied at various times by immigrant lads from the Old Country. Some of them worked in the Krispee Chips factory, some were being groomed for more responsible positions in the mob organization; all of them were here as nominal spouses of young women who worked for Krispee Chips. They were married by proxy, usually, while the young man was still overseas, and surprisingly, many of the marriages held up very well. It was one of their number who had driven Carmine's car on the fatal day.
Humphrey shook his head. “We can't send a kid like them out to Montana,” he said. “He'd end up in Canada, or China, maybe.”
Rossamani shook his head doubtfully. “I'll look around,” he said. “There must be someone.”
Humphrey sighed. “We have fallen on bad days, Rossie. It's like the fall of the Roman Empire. The Visigoths are at the gates and where are my centurions? Find me a boy. And find out who we got in Butte. We must know somebody out there. Mulheisen isn't into this Northern Tier thing for no reason.”
* * *
A couple of days later, Rossamani ushered a woman into Humphrey's presence, at the Krispee Chips office. She could have been thirty or forty, a tall square-shouldered woman with a hard face, little or no makeup, and her coarse brown hair cut very short. She wasn't really unattractive; if she'd had a twin brother, he'd be quite handsome, but on her it was just a little unsettling. Square shoulders, square jaw, with a strong nose and a wide, thin-lipped mouth on which she wore no cosmetics. Her heavy dark eyebrows frowned over a pair of dim brown eyes. She wore pleated wool slacks and a very tweedy jacket in a color usually called “heather.” It was appropriate, because her name was Heather, she said.
Humphrey felt an air of menace, but he licked his red lips and asked, “What's your thing, Heather?”
“My thing?” Her voice was surprisingly soft, but with a bristly edge. “I don't have a thing, Mr. DiEbola. Men have things.” She pronounced the word with a kind of withering contempt. Humphrey's thing would certainly have withered if it hadn't already been in a quiescent state.
Humphrey smiled, a sickly, pained smile. “Some of the guys have a preferred method, Heather, that's all I meant. Some guys are shooters. Most of them are shooters, in fact. But I know a couple guys who are partial to blades—used to know ‘em,” he amended. “Not too many of ‘em around these days.”
“Do you ask the guys what their method is?” Heather said. “No, I didn't think so. But you ask me. ‘Cause I'm a woman.”
She held up her square hands. They were large and reddish, with large knuckles. “This is what I usually use,” Heather said. “I can shoot, if you want me to shoot, or I can use a blade . . . a hatchet, maybe? A sharp stick is good. A rock can be useful.”
Humphrey suppressed a shudder. He found that he couldn't meet her eyes. The eyes were a giveaway, he thought. Lots of people look intelligent; a high, smooth brow, a neat and orderly appearance, an air of self-assurance . . . and sometimes, even the eyes have that look of keenness, of awareness, that bespeaks intelligence. Once in a while he would meet a young fellow, often Italian, who exuded this kind of vibrant healthiness, seemed alert and bright, and even when you looked into those eyes it seemed possible that the kid was on the ball. In time, alas, it rarely worked out that way. Heather was impressive in this way, except for the eyes. You couldn't see into them at all; there was a kind of veil, a film of . . . of what? Nuttiness? Stupidity? He couldn't tell, and he was too astute a manager of personnel to rely on appearances, but it was bothersome.
He swiveled his chair away and gazed at a painting of a winter scene, another of Carmine's arty purchases, or his wife's. It was very dark and lugubrious, a snowy hillside with dark trees and an occasional boulder on the slope, everything dull and brownish and fading into a kind of noncolor in the distance. Snow was falling in the scene and there wasn't a sign of life. Humphrey had come to think of this as Montana.
“A guy already went out to Montana,” Humphrey said, talking to the picture, “and the guy came back in a bag. We ain't sure what happened. Maybe he pulled off the hit before he got it, but we don't know. Now we hear there's a guy in a hospital in Butte, we think he might be the guy our boy was supposed to hit, but if he is, he didn't get hit hard enough. A friend of ours in Butte says this unknown fella in the hospital out there was booked in as ‘Carmine Deadman.’ Now, I never heard of no Carmine Deadman, but that's too much of a coincidence for me, so can you go to Butte and look into it?”
Heather nodded. “I can look into it. That all you want?”
“No. If this Carmine Deadman is the right guy, then you should make sure he's a real dead man.”
“How do I know if he's the right guy?” she asked.
“Go look. We're looking for a guy in his late twenties, about five-five, five-six, black hair and blue eyes, kind of a good-looking guy. He goes by the name of Joe Service. You see this Deadman and if he looks right, then you call me and tell me what you found out. Then you can go look for a rock, or whatever,” Humphrey said. “That okay? Five bucks to go look, another ten if you need to, um, take action.”
“Ten and ten,” Heather said. “I can't do anything on five.”
Humphrey shook his head. “Get her the fuck outta here,” he said to Rossamani, “she gives me the creeps.”
“You're the creep,” Heather said. “I'm not allowed to ask for more? How much did you pay the guy who went out there before, the one who came back in a bag? Does that sound like it was a cake job? Or is it only because I'm a woman?”
“Quit with this woman shit,” Humphrey said. “I'm not some equal opportunity employer. I'm offering you a job. You want it or not?”
“Ten and ten,” Heather said.
Humphrey drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, staring at the woman. She didn't back down. He kind of liked that, but he still wasn't sure about the eyes. “Wait outside,” he said, finally.
When Rossamani returned, Humphrey said, “Where'd you dig her up? She gives me the willies. Did you hear that shit about a sharp stick?”
Rossamani shrugged. “She did a job for Matty, out on the west side, beat a guy's brains out. I don't know all the details, but that's what Matty told me. Said she just went and did it and no problems.”
Humphrey stared at the painting for a long time, then said, “What do you think? Can she be trusted? She's not gonna fuck up?”
“She looks okay,” Rossamani said, “and Matty says she's okay.”
“Screw Matty. Matty is a weirdo. What do you think?” Humphrey fixed his lieutenant with his eyes. Rossamani didn't look away and didn't reveal anything, just stared blandly back.
“She seems okay to me,” he said.
“Offer her five and fifteen,” Humphrey said. “It ain't worth ten just to find out that this Carmine Deadman ain't Joe. If it is Joe, fifteen is cheap for the job.”
“What if she don't go for it?”
“She knows too much. If she don't go for it, your next hitter is a clean-up hitter. You get me? He'll have to clean the bases. Who's our guy in Butte?”
“His name is Smokey Stover,” Rossamani said. “He runs a tavern called Smokey's Corner. He's okay, runs a small organization, don't make waves.”
“If she signs on, tell her she don't talk to nobody but Smokey. I'll talk to him, let him know she's on her way.”
“Matty says she's very good,” Rossamani said.
“They're all s'posed to be good,” Humphrey said. “Get somebody in the on-deck circle, just in case.”
Rossamani beckoned to Heather as he walked through the reception area. She followed him down the hall and into his office. He closed the door behind her and locked it. “We got a problem,” he said. “The Fat Man don't like you.” He sighed, lounging against his desk while she stood, wai
ting. “Things are still kind of unsettled around here. Matty says you're good, you do what you're told. The way things are around here, the right person could get ahead. You want to get ahead?”
Heather shrugged. “Sure,” she said.
Rossamani stared at her frankly, up and down. “I gotta have somebody I can trust, somebody who can take orders. You don't look so bad. Come over here. Get down on your knees,” he said, unzipping his trousers.
Heather dropped to her knees on the carpet. Rossamani held her head with both hands. When it was over, he said, “Did you like that? Was it good?” He was a little out of breath.
Heather didn't smile. She wiped her mouth as she stood up. “It was okay,” she said.
“Five and fifteen,” Rossie said. “That okay? If it don't work out, if Deadman ain't Joe, I'll make it up to you.” He stepped close to her and wiped a glistening fleck of something off her cheek with his forefinger. He placed his finger to her lips and she licked it. Rossamani smiled. “I might have a more important job for you, later. I like you. You're good.”
“Okay,” she said, still not smiling.
Rossamani opened a drawer in his desk and took out an old cigar box. He counted out five thousand dollars. Then he told her how to contact Stover, in Butte. “When you find out anything, call me. Call me first, never call the Fat Man. Understand?”
Heather had driven at least a block from Krispee Chips before she stopped and got out to spit violently, clearing her throat several times. Then she drove to Matty's bar, out McGraw Avenue. An hour later, she was a little drunk, having knocked back several straight shots of bourbon, before Matty showed up. She went into the back with him and as soon as he had closed the door and turned to face her, she knocked him down with a strong right hand. At some time, without his noticing, she had donned black leather gloves. When he got up she knocked him down again. For the next ten minutes she worked him over carefully. At no time did she hit his face, always his head or his chest. Once she kicked him in the buttocks, carefully but closely missing his balls. When she was done, she said, “Don't ever fuck with me, you piece of shit, or next time I'll kill you. You understand?”
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