The Assassin boh-5

by W. E. B Griffin

One of the first things he did when he was released from active duty was to turn the larder into a proper powder magazine. This meant not only reinforcing the door with steel bars and installing some really good locks, but also installing a small exhaust fan for ventilation that turned on automatically for five minutes every hour, and, after a good deal of experimentation and consulting a humidity gauge, one 100-watt and one 40-watt bulb that burned all the time and kept the humidity down below twenty percent.

  After Marion had his supper, he put the leftover green beans in the refrigerator, and the leftover mashed potatoes and the pork chop bones in the garbage, and then washed his dishes.

  He then went to watch the CBS Evening News, to see if there would be anything on it about the Vice President coming to Philadelphia. There was not, but it had been in the newspapers, and therefore it was true.

  He turned the television off, and then went down the stairs to the cellar. He took the keys to the powder magazine from their hiding place, on top of the second from the left rafter, and unlocked the door.

  Everything seemed to be in good shape. The humidity gauge said there was twelve percent humidity and that it was fifty-nine degrees Fahrenheit in the magazines. That was well within the recommended parameters for humidity and temperature. He carefully locked the door again, put the keys back in their hiding place, and went back upstairs and turned the television back on.

  Maybe he would be lucky, and there would be a decent program for him to watch. Everything these days seemed to be what they called T amp;A. For Teats and Ass. He thought that was a funny phrase. He knew the T amp;A offended God, but he thought that God would not be offended because he thought T amp;A was funny. He had learned words like that in the Army, and he wouldn't have been in the Army if God hadn't wanted him to be.

  ****

  Vito Lanza went back to his room and emptied his pockets, tossing everything on the bed. Everything included the wad of bills he had left over after he'd had the Flamingo cashier give him a check for most of the money he'd won. There was almost five hundred dollars, two hundreds, two fifties, and a bunch of twenties and tens, plus some singles.

  It sure looked good.

  He unpacked his luggage, dividing the clothing into two piles, the underwear and socks and shirts his mother would wash, and the good shirts and trousers and jackets that would have to go to the dry cleaners.

  The money looked good. He collected it all together and made a little wad of it, with the hundreds outside, and stuck them in his pocket.

  The one goddamned thing I don't want to do is stick around here and have Ma give me that crap about not understanding why I have to go somewhere to relax.

  He made a bundle of the clothing that had to go to the dry cleaners, and then picked up one of the jackets on the bed and put that on. He went to the upper right-hand drawer of the dresser and took out his Colt snubnose, and his badge and photo ID. From the drawer underneath, he took out a clip holster and six.38 Special cartridges. He loaded the Colt, put it in the holster, and then clipped the holster to his belt.

  "You just got home," his mother said when he went out of the house, "where are you going?"

  "To the dry cleaners, and then I got some stuff to do."

  He decided to walk. He had found a place to park the goddamned Buick, and if he took it now, sure as Christ made little apples, there would be no parking place for blocks when he came back.

  Vito dropped the clothes off at the Martinizer place on South Broad Street and then headed for Terry's Bar amp; Grill. Then he changed his mind. He wasn't in the mood for Terry's. It was a neighborhood joint, and Vito was still in a Flamingo Hotel amp; Casino mood.

  He stepped off the curb and looked down South Broad in the direction of the navy yard until he could flag a cab. He got in and told the driver to take him to the Warwick Hotel. There was usually some gash in the nightclub in the Warwick, provided you had the moneyand he did-to spring for expensive drinks.

  The cab dropped him off at the Warwick right outside the bar. The hotel bar is on the right side of the building, off the lobby. The nightclub is a large area on the left side of the building, past the desk and the drugstore. Vito decided he would check out the hotel bar, maybe there would be something interesting in there, and then go to the nightclub.

  He found a seat at the bar, ordered a Johnnie Walker on the rocks, and laid one of the fifty-dollar bills on the bar to pay for it.

  ****

  Francesco Guttermo, who was seated at a small table near the door to the street in the Warwick Bar, leaned forward in his chair, then motioned for Ricco Baltazari to move his head closer, so that others would not hear what he had to say.

  "The guy what just come in, at the end of the bar, he's got a gun," Mr. Guttermo, who was known as "Frankie the Gut," said. The appellation had been his since high school, when even then he had been portly with a large stomach.

  Mr. Baltazari, who was listed in the records of the City of Philadelphia as the owner of Ristorante Alfredo, one of Center City's best Italian restaurants (northern Italian cuisine, no spaghetti with marinara sauce or crap like that), was expensively and rather tastefully dressed. He nodded his head to signify that he had understood what Frankie the Gut had said, and then relaxed back into his chair, taking the opportunity to let his hand graze across the knee of the young woman beside him.

  She was a rather spectacularly bosomed blonde, whose name was Antoinette, but who preferred to be called "Tony." She slapped his hand, but didn't seem to be offended.

  After a moment Mr. Baltazari turned his head just far enough to be able to look at the man with the gun, his backside and, in the bar's mirror, his face.

  Then he leaned forward again toward Mr. Guttermo, who moved to meet him.

  "He's probably a cop," Mr. Baltazari said.

  "He paid for the drink with a fifty from a wad," Mr. Guttermo said.

  "Maybe he hit his number," Mr. Baltazari said with a smile. "Maybe that's your fifty he's blowing."

  It was generally believed by, among others, the Intelligence Unit and the Chief Inspector's Vice Squad of the Philadelphia Police Department that Mr. Guttermo, who had no other visible means of support, was engaged in the operation of a Numbers Book.

  "You don't think he's interested in us?" Frankie the Gut asked.

  "We're not doing anything wrong," Mr. Baltazari said. "Why should he be interested in us? You're a worrier, Frankie."

  "You say so," Frankie the Gut replied.

  "All we're doing is having a couple of drinks, right, Tony?" Mr. Baltazari said, touching her knee again.

  "You said it, baby," Tony replied.

  But Mr. Baltazari, who hadn't gotten where he was by being careless, nevertheless kept an eye on the guy with a gun who was probably a cop, and when the guy finished his drink and picked up his change and walked out of the bar, a slight frown of concern crossed his face.

  "Go see where he went, Tony," he said.

  "Huh?"

  "You heard me. Go see where that guy went."

  Tony got up and walked out of the bar into the hotel lobby.

  "What are you thinking, Ricco?" Frankie the Gut asked. "That cops don't buy drinks with fifties?"

  "Some cops don't," Mr. Baltazari said.

  Tony came back and sat down and turned to face Mr. Baltazari.

  "He went into The Palms," she said.

  Mr. Baltazari was silent for a long moment. It was evident that he was thinking.

  "I would like to know more about him," he said, finally.

  "You think he was interested in us?" Frankie the Gut said.

  "I said I would like to know more about him," Mr. Baltazari said.

  "How are you going to do that, baby?" Tony asked.

  "You're going to do it for me," Mr. Baltazari said.

  "What do you mean?" Tony asked suspiciously.

  Mr. Baltazari reached in his pocket and took out a wad of crisp bills. He found a ten, and handed it to Tony.

  "I want you to go in t
here, I think it's five bucks to get in, find him, and be friendly," he said.

  "Aaaah, Ricco," Tony protested.

  "When you are friendly with people, they tell you things," Mr. Baltazari observed. "Be friendly, Tony. We'll wait for you."

  "Do I really have to?"

  "Do it, Tony," Mr. Baltazari said.

  ****

  Tony was gone almost half an hour.

  "Let's get out of here," she said, "I told him I had to go to the ladies'."

  "What did you find out?" Mr. Baltazari asked.

  "Can't we leave? What if he comes looking for me?"

  "What did you find out?"

  "He's a cop. He's a corporal. He just made a killing in Vegas."

  "Did he say where he worked?"

  "At the airport."

  "Did he say how much of a killing?"

  "Enough to buy a Caddy. He said he's going out and buy a Cadillac tomorrow."

  Mr. Baltazari thought that over, long enough for Tony to find the courage to repeat her request that they leave before the cop came looking for her.

  "No," Mr. Baltazari said. "No. What I want you to do, Tony, is go back in there and give him this."

  He took a finely bound leather notebook from the monogrammed pocket of his white-on-white shirt, wrote something on it, tore the page out, and handed it to her.

  "What's this?"

  "Joe Fierello is your uncle. He's going to give your friend a deal on a Cadillac."

  "You're kidding me, right?"

  "No, I'm not. You go back in there and be nice to him, and tell him you think your Uncle Joe will give him a deal on a Caddy."

  "You meanstay with him?"

  "I gotta go home now anyway, my wife's been on my ass."

  "Jesus, Ricco!" Tony protested.

  Mr. Baltazari took out his wad of bills again, found a fifty, and handed it to Tony.

  "Buy yourself an ice-cream cone or something," he said.

  Tony looked indecisive for a moment, then took the bill and folded it and stuffed it into her brassiere.

  "I thought we were going to my place," she said.

  "I'll make it up to you, baby," Mr. Baltazari said.

  ****

  Detective Payne had fallen asleep in his arm chair watching Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers gracefully swooping around what was supposed to be the terrace of a New York City penthouse on WCAU-TV's Million Dollar Movie.

  He woke up with a dry mouth, a sore neck, a left leg that had apparently been asleep so long it was nearly gangrenous, and a growling hunger in his stomach. He looked at the clock on the fireplace mantel. It was quarter to eight. That meant it was probably the worst time of the day to seek sustenance in his neighborhood. The hole-in-the-wall greasy spoons that catered to the office breakfast and lunch crowd had closed for the day.

  That left the real restaurants, including the one in the Rittenhouse Club, which was the closest. That attracted his interest for a moment, as they did a very nice London broil, but then his interest waned as he realized he would have to put on a jacket and tie, then stand in line to be seated, and then eat alone.

  The jacket-and-tie and eating-alone considerations also ruled out the other nice restaurants in the vicinity. Without much hope, he checked his cupboard. It was, as he was afraid it would be, nearly bare and, in the case of two eggs, three remaining slices of bread, and a carton of milk, more than likely dangerous. He nearly gagged disposing of the milk, eggs, and green bread down the Disposall.

  He had a sudden, literally mouth-watering image of a large glass of cold milk to wash down a western omelet. And there was no question that his mother would be delighted to prepare such an omelet for him.

  He went into his bedroom, pulled a baggy sweater over his head, and headed for the door, stopping only long enough to take his pistol, a Smith amp; Wesson.38 Special caliber "Chief's Special" and the leather folder that held his badge and photo ID from the mantelpiece. The holster had a clip, which allowed him to carry the weapon inside his waistband. If he remembered not to take his sweater off, his mother wouldn't even see the pistol.

  He went down the narrow stairway to the third floor of the building, then rode the elevator to the basement, and after a moment's hesitation made the mature decision to drive the Bug to Wallingford. It would have been much nicer to drive the Porsche but the Bug had been sitting for two days, and unless it was driven, the battery would likely be dead in the morning when he had to drive it to work.

  As he drove out Baltimore Avenue, which he always thought of as The Chester Pike, he made another mature decision. He drove past an Acme Supermarket, noticed idly that the parking lot was nearly empty, and then did a quick U-turn and went back.

  He could make a quick stop, no more than five minutes, pick up a half gallon of milk, a dozen eggs, a loaf of bread, and a package of Taylor Ham, maybe even some orange juice, and be prepared to make his own breakfast in the morning. He would be, as he had learned in the Boy Scouts to be, prepared.

  The store was, as he had cleverly deduced from the near-empty parking lot, nearly deserted. There were probably no more than twenty people in the place.

  He was halfway down the far-side aisle, bread and Taylor Ham already in the shopping cart, moving toward the eggs-and-milk section, when he ran into Mrs. Glover.

  "Hi!" he said cheerfully.

  It was obvious from the hesitant smile on her face that Mrs. Glover was having trouble placing him. That was certainly understandable. While Mrs. Glover, who presided over the Special Collections desk at the U of P library had attracted the rapt attention of just about every heterosexual male student because of her habitual costume of white translucent blouse and skirt, it did not logically follow that she would remember any particular one of her hundreds of admirers.

  "Matt Payne. Pre-Constitutional Law," he said. He had had occasion to partake of Mrs. Glover's professional services frequently when he was writing a term paper on what had happened, and who had been responsible for it, when the fledgling united colonies had been adapting British common law to American use.

  "Oh, yes, of course," she said, and he thought her smile reflected not only relief that he was not putting the make on her, but genuine pleasure at seeing him. "How are you, Matt?"

  "Very well, thank you," Matt said. "It's nice to see you, Mrs. Glover."

  "Nice to see you too," she said, and pushed her cart past him.

  She was wearing a sweater over her blouse, Matt Payne noticed, but the blouse was still translucent and her breastworks were as spectacular as he remembered them.

  "This is the police," an electronically amplified voice announced. "Drop your weapons and put your hands on your head!"

  "Oh, shit!" Matt Payne said.

  There was the sound of firearms. First a couple of loud pops, and then the deep booming of a shotgun. There was a moment's silence, and then the sound of breaking glass.

  Matt turned and ran and caught up with Mrs. Glover, and put his hands on her shoulders.

  "Get on the floor!" he ordered.

  She looked at him with terror in her eyes, and let him push her first to her knees and then flat on her stomach.

  As he pushed his sweater aside to get at his pistol, and then fumbled to find his badge, he saw her looking at him with shock in her eyes.

  There was the sound of another handgun firing twice.

  "Motherfucker!" a male voice shouted angrily, and there was another double booming of a shotgun being fired twice. A moment later there was the sound of a car crash.

  "Everybody all right?" a voice of authority demanded loudly.

  A moment later the same voice, now electronically amplified, went on: "This is the police. It's all over. There is no danger. Please stay right where you are until a police officer tells you what to do."

  Matt got to his feet, and holding his badge in front of him walked toward the front of the store.

  As he reached the end of the aisle, he called out, "Three six nine, three six nine," and held the badge o
ut as he carefully stepped into the checkout area.

  "Who the hell are you?" a lieutenant holding a shotgun in one hand and a portable loudspeaker in the other demanded. He and three other cops in sight were wearing the peculiar uniform, including bulletproof vests, Stakeout wore on the job.

  "Payne, East Detectives, sir."

  "What are you doing in here?"

  "I came in to get milk and eggs," Matt said.

  "You see what happened?"

  "I didn't see anything," Matt said truthfully.

  There were flashing lights, and the sound of dying sirens, and Matt looked through the shattered plate-glass window and saw the first of a line of police vehicles pull up to the door.

  The lieutenant made a vague gesture toward the last checkout counter. Matt saw a pair of feet extending into the aisle, and a puddle of blood.

  "One there and another outside, in his car," the lieutenant said. "They had their chance to drop their guns and surrender, but they probably thought it would be like the movies. Jesus Christ!"

  There was more contempt for the critters he had dropped than compassion, Matt thought.

  That's the way it is. Not like the movies, either, where the cops are paralyzed with regret for having had to drop somebody. The bad dreams I have had about my shootings have been about those assholes getting me, not the other way around.

  ****

  Matt looked through the hole where the plate-glass window had been. Three uniforms were in the act of pulling a man from his car. The car-crashing noise he had heard had apparently come when the doer, trying to flee, had crashed into one of the cars parked in the lot.

  Matt had twice gone through the interviews conducted by the Homicide shooting team of officers involved in a fatal shooting. He blurted what popped into his mind.

  "You'll spend the next six hours in Homicide."

  The lieutenant's eyebrows rose.

  "You been through this?" he asked.

  "It goes on for goddamned ever," Matt said, and then added, " Christ, I'll be there all night too, and I didn't even see what happened."