by James Burke
"Good. I'll either be here or at the club. Call me tonight, whenever you hear from him. And, Mario . . .''
"Yeah, Jammy."
"We gotta get those fucking books. We gotta."
"I know, Jammy."
"Who'd've thought that old fart would be so fucking cute about it? Suspicious bastard. I'd'a bet he had those books in his suitcase."
This brought a smile to Banducci's face. Slowly Matthewson relaxed and returned it. He put his arm around the younger man's shoulders as they walked toward the door. "You goin' home for Sunday dinner?"
Banducci nodded.
"Give my love to your mother. Tell her I'll be out soon to see her and the girls."
"Okay, Jammy. See ya later." They walked through the reception area, and Banducci let himself out into the hall. Jammy snapped the lock, and turning to the secretary who'd been sitting quietly behind her big desk, beckoned her to follow him as he went back into his own office. Like two well rehearsed actors in a long-running drama, they moved smoothly across the room. She locked the door behind her, then, going to the wall, opened the small service bar and mixed a lowball, heavy and dark with expensive bourbon. He went to the large leather couch, stripped off the cushions, and pulled the strap, converting it to a king-sized bed. He took off his shirt and T-shirt and tossed them on a nearby chair, kicked off his shoes, stepped out of his trousers and shorts, and sat down on the side of the bed to peel off his socks. She carried the drink to him and waited while he tasted it, nodded in approval, and then placed it on the end table. She knelt in front of him and raised her arms as he gently lifted her dress up over her head and tossed it carelessly toward a chair. She cradled his head as his face moved hungrily across her naked chest.
While Jammy Matthewson was exacting from his secretary the pound of flesh that was his due in lieu of professional services, Dennis Conners was sitting quietly at the bar of a fashionable North Side hotel, sipping on a Scotch and soda, occasionally listening to the music of a live trio, but mostly just thinking. Dennis thought a lot. This, next to his blond good looks, was the thing that distinguished him most from the majority of his colleagues in the Chicago area. He had been working for Matthewson for over two years and had climbed steadily in the estimation and trust of his boss. It had been reflected in his pay, his assignments, and his status. But then, the competition wasn't very stiff in this nepotistically oriented organization. The family offspring, at least those Conners had met so far, were for the most part loyal and dependable, but they were devoid of imagination, initiative, and drive. He guessed this was the reason the superstar boss in New Jersey, Mr. Henry, had engineered the establishment of his Corporation utilizing the best talent and ideas he could get, regardless of the national origin or bloodlines. Conners remembered that that was why he had come into the outfit in the first place.
Jammy - or "Mr. Matthewson," as all the non-Italians called him - was not a bad guy, in a manner of speaking. He was smart and fair, and in his day must have been quite an operator. But now, something was bugging him. Mr. Matthewson didn't seem to care about business on a day-to-day basis, and usually only got interested in a deal after one of his boys had screwed up and it was too late to do anything but try a salvage job. It was no wonder the only real successful "moustache Petes" any more were those who had divested themselves of the liabilities of nepotism. Take Matthewson for instance. He'd probably earned the job in the beginning, and he was one of the very few "Italian legacy" types Mr. Henry had trusted to a significant degree but he was fast becoming just such a liability. Even worse, of course, was the next level. Regardless of what Matthewson was up to lately, or how many blank checks he had with the boss, he could not afford much longer the luxury of that thinly cultured and birdbrained nephew of his. Something had to give, and when it did, Dennis planned to be waiting in the wings. In a way he sort of hated to see Banducci get the ax - he was so easy to manipulate. Hell, he knew the key he'd found in the old man's Florida place was a safe-deposit box key, but he hadn't mentioned it to Banducci until just before they went in to Jammy's office. (Otherwise the simple ass would have tried to present it as his own find.) Anyway, the thing had turned out just as Conners had planned, and Mario didn't even know he'd been had. Now Krupa was reporting directly to Conners, and he was reporting directly to Matthewson. He had a feeling the news would be good on Monday, and he wouldn't have to pass it through Banducci.
Conners's musings were interrupted as a very pretty young woman, still brushing the snow from her dark hair, came in through the street door. She looked around, letting her eyes adjust to the soft gloom of the lounge, then spotted him at the bar, smiled, and started toward him. He watched her approach with apparent pride and affection. She stopped by the side of his stool, took off her coat, and shook it lightly. He spoke first. "Hi."
"Hi yourself."
"You look like you could use a warmer."
"Thought you'd never ask." She hitched herself up on the empty stool next to him as Conners ordered her a double Smirnoff on the rocks with a twist. The bartender brought it quickly, and she raise it in salute before taking a large sip. She made a face. "Oooh. I needed that. You're right; it's a real warmer. ,,
"I've been prescribing warmers for cold ladies for many years. No complaints yet."
She raised her eyebrows. Her eyes were huge, sparkly, and smiling. ''I'll bet you have, and I'll bet you haven't. Speaking of prescriptions what's new at the factory?" One of the Matthewson's principal cover clients was a large foreign pharmaceutical concern.
"Nothing and everything, if you know what I mean."
"I don't, but it sounds interesting anyway."
"It is. I mean things are popping, but it's nothing really new. Are you still interested in changing jobs if the right opportunity comes along?"
"Oh yes. More than ever. I'm bored sick. Just make me an offer - anything that doesn’t involve staying in Chicago."
"Well, we might have something before too long."
"Oh, Dennis, that'd be terrific. With travel and foreign deals, and all that?"
"Why not."
"And would we work together?"
"That's the idea, baby. You and me as a team."
"We'll knock 'em dead."
"I hadn't thought of anything so drastic, but I'm game if you are."
"I mean in a manner of speaking."
"Okay."
"What about your pal, Mario?"
"Funny you should ask. He's not really part of the picture any more. At least where I'm concerned."
"Hmm. That sounds good, I think."
"That is good, I know." He turned toward her, took her free hand in both of his, lifted it to his lips, then smiled. "How about some dinner?"
"Celebrate?"
"Something like that."
"I'm famished. Let's go."
They were a handsome couple, and eyes turned to follow them as they walked back toward the dining room, carrying their wet coats. They laughed and talked, arm in arm, looking like many other happy, healthy young lovers walking toward dinner tables all over Chicago that snowy night. But such was not the case. They were quite different.
4
Elizabeth Poppins, R.N., inevitably and affectionately known to her friends and colleagues as "Mary," closed the door of Room 512 very quietly. The patient was doing as well as could be expected, but she needed all the rest and quiet she could get. Those bullets had really torn up her insides. Damn! Such a lovely person to be mixed up in a gangland killing. It must have been a mistake. She just wasn't the type. Over the years in the nursing profession, most of them spent right here in Washington, Nurse Poppins had developed the habit of treating all patients alike, with equal parts of sternness and sympathy. But she was only human, and to some of them – those who were especially helpless or thoughtful or considerate -she weighted the treatment more toward gentle sympathy. Dorothy in room 512 was one of these, so she was enjoying dispensing that little extra care that was the patient's due.
Nu
rse Poppins stopped at the nurses' station to drop off the chart. Someone passed as she bent over to set the chart on hook 512, but when she straightened up, she saw only the back of a man retreating down the hallway she'd just come up. She started to go after him, since visiting hours were over, but his back looked vaguely familiar and he was carrying a little black doctor's bag, so she assumed he was one of the M.D.s who had privileges there but visited less frequently. The phone rang and Nurse Poppins got involved in a change of medication for the patient in 527.
In room 512 Dorothy was dopily awake, listening to her visitor, one John Rayboldt, Jr., M.D., alias Dr. Forrest, which was the name he had just used with her. He said he'd been sent by "Mr. Cappacino's friends" to check on her well-being and see if there was anything she needed. This puzzled Dorothy enough to clear away some of the fog. She looked at him quizzically. "What friends?"
He hesitated momentarily, then said, "Mr. Henry."
"Oh. How nice." She didn't sound at all enthusiastic.
"Mr. Henry wants you to know that if there is anything he can do to make your recuperation quicker or easier, you have but to ask."
She mellowed a bit and some of the fog rolled back in. "That's very thoughtful. Please thank Mr. Henry, and ask him to find the people who did this to Dante and me."
"He said to assure you that this matter has top priority until it is finished, and that the punishment will be appropriate."
She nodded satisfaction, her eyes almost closed. The doctor went on. "Mr. Henry also asked if you could help him."
Dorothy was jolted awake again. "And how could I help Mr. Henry?" She gestured with her hands, indicating her own helpless condition.
"Well, Mr. Henry cannot find a large shipment of cash that was supposed to come in through Mr. Cappacino a few days ago, and then there were a number of notebooks, courier records, and code books that Mr. Cappacino was bringing to Mr. Henry. He thinks maybe the people who killed Mr. Cappacino also stole the books and the money. He wondered if you would know where Dante kept them, and if so, whether or not they'd been stolen."
Dorothy looked at the doctor more closely and didn't much like what she saw. He was a slippery-looking bastard, and it was apparent, even to her benumbed mind, that he was much more interested in those missing items than her physical well being. "What day is today?"
"Friday the twenty-fifth."
"The money's not due in 'til tomorrow. It was delayed."
"Where and when?" This crisply businesslike and delivered in a not-at-all friendly tone.
"I don't know. I never do. Only Dante knows delivery details. Him and Santa. I only know about the transfers to Mr. Henry's people."
He was even brisker - almost shrill. "Santa? Who is Santa?"
Now she was alert. Something told her that it was important not to spill anything. "He's Mr. Cappacino's assistant, but I've never seen him. I don't know his name, except for 'Santa.' Mr. Cappacino always dealt with him alone."
"What does he look like? Where does he live?" She shook her head. "I don't know. I told you."
"What about those notebooks? Where did the old man keep them?"
Old man, she thought. This creep is showing his true colors. Why, Dante was more of a man at seventy-one than this supercilious fucker was now or ever would be. But she would have to play along. "I don't know. I know he had some records or notebooks or something in his desk but I never saw them. Wasn't my job."
The doctor fought for control but couldn't quite master himself. When he spoke it was in a low threatening voice. "I think you do know, you little bitch. Now where are those books, and where is this Santa? Mr. Henry wants to know, and Mr. Cappacino wanted him to know. Now come on."
She turned to the wall, saying nothing. The doctor sat there silently, fuming. Finally Dorothy turned back, opened her eyes wide, and said, 'Tm getting bad vibes from you, Dr. what ever-your-name-is, and if Dante Cappacino did not make arrangements to of emergency or accident, it was because he didn't want them to be. I can think of lots of interesting reasons why. So I wouldn't tell you even if I knew, but it doesn't matter one fucking bit anyway, Mr. Doctor, 'cause I don't know!" With this she turned again to the wall, pulled the covers to her chin, and mumbled, "Get out."
Regaining his composure, the doctor tried apologies, soothing talk, and promises, but Dorothy wasn't having any. She just kept mumbling, "Get out" and finally threatened to call a nurse. He stood up and, keeping up a running chatter of entreaties, took a hypodermic out of his jacket pocket and tested it. Then, taking her I.V. feeding tube in one hand, he put the needle into it and plunged the contents into the tube. He got ready to leave, telling her he'd be back when she was feeling better. She mumbled something, either "Don't bother" or "Oh, brother," but didn't look up. He shrugged and walked out.
Nurse Poppins was standing in front of the station when the man came out of 512. She waited until he drew even, and when she saw he was preoccupied and not about to speak, took the initiative. "And how is Miss Dorothy feeling, Doctor? She didn't say anything about your coming."
He looked up, a bit startled, then took a closer look at the nurse. She appeared to be friendly and casual, so he lightly replied, "Oh, my visit was personal – family friend. I was in the hospital and just dropped in to say hello." He smiled. "I might as well have gone home - she's sleeping, so I didn't wake her." He continued to the waiting elevator and was gone.
He seems a pleasant sort, Nurse Poppins thought, but something about him bothered her. Then it hit her. Wasn't it unusual that a busy doctor would wait for over fifteen minutes in a room while the patient slept? She walked down the corridor to 512 and opened the door. Dorothy was sleeping soundly. Good, she needs the rest. Then, for reasons she couldn't explain then or later, Nurse Poppins walked over to the bed, reached under the covers, and grasped Dorothy's wrist. My God! There wasn't any pulse. Not a flicker. Nurse Poppins ran from the room to call the chief resident.
It was almost midnight Chicago time that same night when, unknown to Conners (who was at the moment in a soft, warm bed in a very compromising position with the soft, warm young lady he'd escorted to dinner), his master plan was advanced a giant step forward. A nervous Mario Banducci was talking to his uncle on the phone. Jammy was more than annoyed; he was almost apoplectic. "He what? You crazy fucking idiot! He killed her! And no books! You simple asshole, you told me you had that fucking quack on a leash, and I turn my back and he's wasted the broad and no books."
"I did, Jammy, and the doc understood, honest. The old broad got mean, and said she was gonna call the cops and that she didn't trust Mr. Henry, and Jesus, Jammy, the doc lost his head and stuck her. He was trying to protect all of us."
"Oh holy shit, Mario. You are somethin' else, kid. You weren't behind the door when they passed out brains; you were hiding on the fucking closet floor. Goddammit, there's a limit to family patience, y'know."
"Well, the doc did get the name of the guy that handled everything for Dante. This guy Santa."
"Sure, kid, and now all we gotta do is go to the fucking North Pole and pick him up."
"But, Jammy, I think the old broad was telling the truth. I don't think she knew."
"You think. Huh. That's a new one." Then Jammy stopped, relaxing his grip on the phone. "Hmm. Maybe you're right, the old broad didn't know. The old man was a cagey old fart." He began to talk rapidly, all business once more. "Mario, you get that asshole quack on the line right away - tonight - and tell him that this is his story, and if he fucks it up, so help me I'll cut off his balls myself and stuff 'em down his throat. Here's what happened. The broad said she didn't know anything other than the delivery was late and the bagman was called 'Santa.' When the quack tried to squeeze her for more she got mean and said she wouldn't tell him anything anyway 'cause she recognized one of the soldiers and knew he worked for Mr. Henry. She got pretty wild and threatened to call the cops, so the quack had to stick her. But he did it so's nobody will ever know it was anything but natural. Now that's his s
tory, and it's gonna be your ass as well as his if he fucks it up. Now get on it, kid."
"Yeah, Jammy, that's great. I like it."
"Then I'm worried."
"What was that, Jammy?"
"Nothing, kid, get on that phone before the quack does anything else crazy. Wait a minute, one more thing. I want you and Conners to cover that delivery down in Florida tomorrow, and I want that son of a bitch covered like a blanket. I want that dough and I want that fucking 'Santa.' I think he's got the key to the whole shithouse. Got it?"
"Yeah. Got it. We concentrate on Santa and not worry about Mr. Henry's boys. Right?"
"Mario, you're getting to be a fucking genius."
"But, Jammy, how about me using Valletta instead of Conners?"
"Kid, you're trying my patience. I said Conners. I meant
Conners. So take Conners. Got it?"
"Yeah, Jammy. We'll be there.''
"You bet your ass you will. Now get the quack straightened out."
"Right. See ya later."
Jammy padded back to his bed, scuffed off his slippers, dropped his robe on the floor, and slipped between the warm covers. The girl moved in her sleep, clutching the blanket and turning sideways, giving him the provocative profiled arch of her unmistakably feminine behind. He started to slide his hand over it but stopped. It was too late for her to leave tonight. Gina probably had one of her fucking bloodhounds out there watching the building door. If they never left the office nobody could ever prove anything. So why not stay? Then they'd have plenty of time in the morning. Let her have her sleep tonight. She'd need it.
Poor kid, if it weren't for that fucking Gina, Sandy could have a decent life with him. They deserved it. Sonofabitching bitch. It all went back to Gina. Can he help it if his blood's hot? Shit no. Some is, and some isn't. His is. Everything was all right when they first got married. Shit, Gina liked it as much as he did, even though that fat-assed mother of hers had taught her that anything beyond one missionary position fuck a week was a mortal sin. Then comes the kids. Pop. One. Pop. Two. And three and four. And Gina starts puttin' her box off limits. Naturally, she won't use anything; that's against her religion. But it wasn't against her fucking religion to cut her old man's ass off tighter'n a drum. So what to do? Slip into the can and pull his pud like a fucking kid, or go out on the market? So he went looking, and finding - there was more ass in Chicago than even he could take care of in a thousand years. Comes along Sandy. No typing, no shorthand, but oh mother, mother, how she could operate a bedroom. Nothin'! Nothin' she wouldn't or couldn't do, and do better than any other fucking broad he'd ever met. He salivated just thinking about the morning, smiling for the first time that night. He still couldn't sleep, so he just lay there smoking and thinking.