by John Locke
“You know you want to.”
“I do. But you can’t just go around doing whatever you want all the time.”
“Of course not. But you can do whatever you want when your cause is just.”
“What is our cause, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“True love.”
“Sir?”
“Can there possibly be a more noble cause?”
“Uh…”
“Light the fires and kick the tires!”
“Sir?”
“Make them shit their pants, son.”
“Yes, sir!”
He revs up the engine and taxis onto the runway. Then looks at me and says, “Aren’t you even the least bit nervous?”
“Not at all,” I say.
“Can I ask why?”
“Only three runways in the world make me nervous, Buck. One, Paro, in Bhutan, where only eight pilots in the world are certified to land, and even they can’t do it without setting off all the cockpit warning sirens. Two, Matekane, in Lesotho, where the too-short runway suddenly ends at the edge of a 2,000-foot cliff and your plane is forced to plummet downward until it gains enough altitude to clear the mountain in front of you. And three, Barra International, in Scotland, where the runway is made of sand and disappears twice a day at high tide. These are tough runways, son. Not this one.”
“But the fighter jets.”
“We’ll clear them with forty feet to spare.”
As it turned out we cleared them with only twenty feet to spare. By then, Buck’s drunk on the adrenalin rush, and we laugh and joke about the experience all the way to Cincinnati, where he touches us down safely, and taxis to our assigned drop off area.
I point at Callie’s limo, entering the gate.
“There she is, Buck!” I say. “Wait till you see her!”
Buck brings us to a stop and winds down the engines. Then fusses with the old door till it finally opens. I descend the stairs to find Callie out of the car, running toward me. We have one of those Hallmark moments as we catch each other in a warm embrace, and share our first kiss.
And our second.
I’m going to pause here and freely admit I’m not an overly-emotional, touchy-feely kind of guy. So I’ll spare you such details as the “surge of happiness” I’m feeling, and how “right” it seems, and how “time stood still” as we kissed, and all that crap. I’ll keep to myself how my heart’s pounding and do my best to refrain from all girly descriptions of how her lips seemed to hunger for mine, and how our passion “soared to heights unmatched by those who’ve loved before.”
First of all, it wouldn’t be true. I mean, how can I say you haven’t felt the exact same thing when you kissed the man or woman of your dreams? What right do I have to suggest our first kiss was any more special than yours?
None.
I’ll simply say that kissing Callie was the greatest feeling I’ve ever known, a moment I’ll never forget.
It probably didn’t hurt knowing in a couple of hours I’ll be in her pants.
39.
CALLIE’S IN A sundress, I’m wearing a blazer and jeans, and holding a legal-sized folder when mid-west crime boss Sal Bonadello accepts us into his office. His face is ashen, completely devoid of the humor one can normally find playing around his eyes.
He’s pissed.
Really, really pissed.
So angry, he doesn’t flirt with Callie when we take our seats. This is a first, in my experience. I wonder if I underestimated his reaction to Frankie’s death.
He points a finger at Callie. “You killed Frankie?”
“Yes, sir.”
“On my orders, Sal,” I say.
He keeps his eyes trained on Callie and says, “You live in Vegas?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Nice place?”
“Nice enough.”
“Carpet in your living room? Or hardwood floors?”
“Marble,” she says.
“Marble,” he repeats. “That is nice. What about your den?”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Your den. Is it carpeted?”
She looks at me. I shrug. She looks back at him and says, “Yes, Sal. My den is carpeted.”
“Tell me, my dear. What color is the carpet in your den?”
“Sage.”
“Sage?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a color?”
“It is.”
He shakes his head. “What is that, some sort of light brown?”
“It’s more of a muted green, with greyish undertones.”
“Greyish undertones,” he says. “Sounds expensive.” He pauses a moment, then says, “How much does something like that cost, ah—whatcha call—per yard?”
“I don’t remember.”
“No?”
“Not off-hand.”
“But expensive, am I right?”
“I guess.”
“You’re not sure? Because it sounds pretty—whatcha call—impressive to me.”
“I’d say it’s definitely upscale.”
“Sal,” I say.
“Huh?”
“Are you okay?”
He looks at me through smoldering eyes and says, “Have you taken a shit today?”
“Excuse me?”
He checks his watch. “It’s two twenty-eight. I was just wondering if you’ve taken your daily shit yet.”
“And this is important to you because?”
“Because I haven’t shit yet today. And I feel a huge one working its way through my colon.”
We’re two men looking at each other, one furious, one confused.
I finally say, “I hope you can hold it in till we’re finished here.”
“You’d like that?”
“If it’s not too much to ask.”
He looks at Callie and says, “I wonder if you’d be so kind as to lift up your dress so I can shit in your lap.”
“I think not,” she says.
“No? Well how about I fly to Vegas this afternoon, walk into your beautiful home, and take a big, fat, greasy shit on the upscale sage-green carpet in the middle of your fucking den. Would that be okay with you?”
“No.”
“Really? Because you seem to have no problem taking my money for a simple hit, and shitting all over me! Maybe I’ve got too much respect. Too much—whatcha call—consideration. Too much decency. It’s what prevents me from getting up from my desk, dropping my pants, and shitting in your lap.”
“That, and the fact I’d kill you before you got your fly unzipped,” she says.
“You’re deadly in small numbers,” he says, “In close quarters. I’ll give you that. But I don’t operate with small numbers. I don’t play in close quarters. And you crossed the line.”
“We had a reason for our actions,” I say.
“Much as I adore you both, I’m—whatcha call—devastated by what you’ve done.”
He slams his hand on his desk and yells, “Frankie was a made man!”
He slams the desk again. “A captain! My top earner!”
“I realize that.”
“You realize that.”
He looks at Callie and says, “He realizes that. I feel so much better.”
To me, he says, “I’ll require an explanation. And it better be the best fucking explanation I ever heard in my life, or I’ll require—whatcha call—retri—retri—”
“Retribution?” I say.
“No.”
“Remuneration?”
“Tribute. I’ll require tribute. In the form of money and a life. Your money, Callie’s life. And if you refuse to pay? We’ll be more than enemies. We’ll be at war.”
He suddenly slaps the table again. “Because I will be respected!”
Slaps it again. “I will be consulted before you kill my people!”
“Are you ready to hear my explanation?” I say.
“Not yet. Three things, before you speak.”
“G
o ahead.”
“One.”
“Yes?”
“Put yourself in my position.”
“What do you mean?”
“This lovely young lady sitting in front of me. Callie Carpenter.”
“What about her?”
“She works for you. Reports to you.”
“So?”
“She’s got a girlfriend, yes?”
“For the sake of this conversation, let’s say yes.”
“I’m told her name is Gwen,” Sal says.
“Leave Gwen out of this,” Callie says.
“Please, dear. Hear me out while I speak to Mr. Creed. Because your life is literally on the line today.”
To me, he says, “Suppose you paid me money—for whatever reason—to kill Gwen, but I take it upon myself to not only kill Gwen, but Callie as well. Without even discussing it with you. Is there any possible explanation I could give you that would be—whatcha call—sufficient? That would sit well with the others who work for you? Is there any explanation I could give that would satisfy you as to why I killed your top person? Anything I could say that would allow you to forgive me?”
“Only one.”
“Then that’s the explanation I better hear. And the second thing?”
“Yeah?”
“I hope you don’t plan to tell me you killed Frankie because he would have been furious with me for killing his wife, and that he would have come after me, tried to kill me.”
“Why wouldn’t that be a good reason?”
“Because he personally approved the hit on Angie. Because his kids are grown and he had a new girlfriend he wanted to marry.”
“I hadn’t heard.”
“It’s true.”
“Do tell.”
“And third?” Sal says.
“Yeah?”
“I hope you don’t plan to tell me you killed Frankie because you found out he and Sophie were dealing drugs. Because I’m part of that deal.”
“You are?”
“Yeah. Now go ahead and give me your reason for killing the top person in my entire organization without my permission.”
40.
I LEAN FORWARD in my chair and place the folder I’ve been holding on Sal’s desk. He opens it and looks at the thin stack of papers.
“What’s this?”
“The first page is a copy of FBI phone records documenting conversations with Frankie. The next twelve pages are certified transcripts of phone conversations between Frankie and Special Agent Robert Thorne, of the FBI. If you read those transcripts, I think you’ll be stunned to see what he’s already given the Feds.”
Sal glances at the papers and says, “What’s this last bit?”
“The evidence catalog.”
“What’s that?”
“The sheet that documents where the evidence is being held, and what type of evidence they have.”
“What type is that?”
“Audio tapes of the phone conversations, for one.”
“There are three listings for audio tapes,” he says.
“The others are recordings Frankie made of private conversations with you.”
“I don’t believe it. Anyone could type this shit up.”
“You think? Plus, why would I want to kill Frankie for free, other than to save your ungrateful ass?”
“Frankie was as loyal as they come. This here’s bullshit. Unless you’ve got proof says otherwise.”
“One of those tapes on the evidence sheet is a private discussion he claims you had in your basement last Memorial Day, when you gave him the order to whack the DiPietro brothers.”
Sal looks like he ate a bad fig. “That’s on tape?”
“It is. Apparently you also told him to torch the Jersey Icehouse restaurant, and gave him a date and time to do it. And it was, in fact torched on that day, at that time.”
“The FBI heard that?”
“They did.”
He closes his eyes. After a long time he says, “What’s the other tape?”
“A meeting he says took place here in the office ten days ago where you discussed a hostile takeover of Carmine Porello’s territory.”
“Frankie said that?”
“He did. And gave them the tape to prove it. I can’t believe you don’t strip search your people before having these meetings.”
He waves a hand, absently. In a defeated voice he says, “That would be disrespectful.”
“So is ratting you out to the Feds.”
Sal looks at me like a guy on a sinking ship, watching the last lifeboat launch without him.
“The Feds have all this?” he says.
“Did have all this,” I say.
“What’s that mean?”
“Permission to reach into my jacket pocket?” I say.
He nods. “You already been searched.”
I remove two microcassette tapes, and slide them across the desk.
“Happy birthday, Sal.”
“What’s this?” he asks hopefully.
“I was called to Virginia yesterday. Emergency meeting with Homeland Security. For some insane reason they made me head of the whole anti-terrorist division. While I was there I thought I’d check out the FBI files on my good friend, Sal Bonadello. Imagine my surprise when I learned they had a full-scale investigation underway, based on the tapes and testimony of Frankie De Luca.”
“These are those tapes?”
“Glance at the sheet in front of you that shows the location of the tapes”
“What about it?”
“There are tapes in those evidence cubicles. But one’s Paul Revere and the Raiders, the other’s Peter & Gordon’s Greatest Hits. You’re holding the originals.”
Sal frowns. “You like that sissy music?”
“Who doesn’t?”
Callie groans.
Sal looks at her and says, “I’m right, right?”
“You are,” she says.
“What about the phone tapes?”
“They’re in a different building. I couldn’t get to them. But I had a friend erase them.”
“How?”
“They were on magnetic tape.”
“So?”
“He put a giant magnet in an envelope and stuck it in the adjoining cubicle.”
He looks at me a long time, then calls Big Bad, his bodyguard. When Big Bad enters the room, Sal holds up the tiny tape and says, “We got anything here that can play this size tape?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Yes you do,” I say.
“What’re you talking about?”
“When you patted me down you took my microcassette player.”
“Oh yeah.”
Sal frowns. “Go get it,” he says.
When Big Bad comes back, Sal says, “Stay in here. I want you to hear this when I hear it.”
He fiddles with the recorder a minute, then gives up and says, “I don’t know how this shit works. You do it.”
He hands me the recorder and one of the tapes and we listen to Sal telling Frankie to kill the DiPietro brothers. Then we hear some small talk. Then he tells Frankie how and when to torch the Jersey Icehouse restaurant. Then I switch tapes and we listen to the meeting where Sal decided not to support Roy in his effort to kill Carmine Porello because he heard I shattered Roy’s hand and forced him to kiss Carmine’s ring in front of the entire Top Six audience and staff.
When the tape ends, Sal says, “You heard all that?”
Big Bad nods.
“That’s a tape Frankie made and gave to the FBI.”
“Frankie done that? Naw, not Frankie! I don’t believe it.”
“You were in this very room when that discussion happened!” Sal says. “And the first one was in my own home, in the basement!”
Big Bad stares straight ahead, as if it takes him longer to hear things than the rest of us.
“There were only two of us in the fuckin’ room,” Sal says. “Me and Frankie. Unless you think I’m stu
pid enough to tape my own conversations and send them to the FBI.”
“The Feds?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Maybe the Feds bugged the office and your basement.”
“Do you personally let Cheech in here twice a week to sweep my office?”
He nods.
“You ever see him find any bugs?”
He shakes his head no.
“And he sweeps my house the same days. It’s not a fuckin’ bug, it’s a wire. Frankie made these tapes, and gave them to the FBI.”
To me he says, “How much did they pay him?”
“You’re not going to like my answer.”
“Go ahead. Say it.”
I shake my head, sorrowfully.
“How much?” Sal repeats.
“He did it for free.”
“Son of a bitch!” Sal yells. “Now do you see why I told Creed to kill the bastard?”
Big Bad nods.
Sal says, “You heard the proof. Now tell the others what you know and tell them to shut their fuckin’ mouths and let me run my own business. And never speak of this again. Frankie was a rat. You wanted me to kill these two today? Well this is why I’m in charge. It’s why I make the important decisions and leave you to decide how many times you can pull your pud in the shitter while pretending to shit.”
Big Bad looks at Callie. He’s embarrassed. She shrugs as if it’s no big deal.
Sal says, “Thank God for these two. Callie and Creed saved our asses. Again.”
41.
“THANK GOD FOR these two?” Callie says.
“They saved our asses,” I say. “Again.”
“You have got to tell me what happened back there,” she says.
We’re in her limo, heading to her hotel so we can, ahem, do the deed.
She adds, “When Sal said he was in on the heroin deal I thought we were dead in the water.”
“We would have been, but you saved us.”
“How?”
“Last night you failed to create a backup plan to escape Frankie’s closet.”
“So?”
“It made me re-think our backup plan for explaining why we killed Frankie.”
“Why?”
“My real reason for killing Frankie was to protect Sal. I thought he’d be furious at Sal for ordering a hit on his wife. So that was the main reason, and you tortured Frankie so we could have a backup reason. But something you said last night made me think Frankie already knew Angie was getting whacked.”