“Jersey? What the hell’s he doin’ there?”
Maria was almost too rattled to answer. Slowly she managed to compose herself enough to say something.
“He’s resting. You want to know where? Here’s the address.” Hands quivering, she reached over to the table, fished out a small piece of paper from a pile of notes and handed it to Vince. “Take it and get the hell outta here.”
“You gotta be kiddin’ me,” Vince mumbled when he read what was written on the scrap.
“What?” Maria questioned, still indignant despite everything.
“Nothin’. You’ve been a big help Mrs. Torriella. When I see your brother I’ll let him know.”
Vince slipped his gun back into his coat and calmly stepped out the door, a scattered mess of an apartment left behind him.
“I hope you rot in hell!” she shouted as he left.
EIGHTEEN
THE BLEECKER STREET HAVEN WAS ALIVE.
Though the facade remained as nondescript as Vince had found it a day earlier, within the humble confines the air was charged. Neighbors and other Greenwich Village locals already knew that the place tended to fill up with borders once or twice a year, crowded with foreign guests like some European youth hostel. But what the outsiders could not know, what they could not see behind the hand-stenciled sign and the plain gray walls was something much different.
Inside the frosted glass double-doors, and beyond the oaken paneled foyer, the atmosphere hummed with the sights and sounds and smells of a party.
Chatter filled the main library hall on the first floor, gossip and conversation made in a dozen languages. The walls there were lined with Gothic-crafted cabinets of polished cedar crammed full with old books. A series of maroon oriental rugs broke the monotony of the well-worn hardwood floor. Positioned throughout the chamber were a number of velvet cushioned, high-backed chairs and reading desks topped with Russian vases and the stark white busts of poets and statesmen.
Smoke from pipes and Cuban cigars—the kind usually reserved for special occasions—lent the air a sweet, thick aroma.
It was festive, though no decorations suggested a particular holiday. The people who mingled about were of all manners and sorts, young and old, male and female, and culled from as many different ethnic backgrounds as there were individuals circulating through the establishment. No single trait could have described them all, except that everyone present seemed genuinely happy to see everyone else.
More like a reunion than anything else.
Argus entered with his pocket-watch in hand. Lately every hour had become precious, and he was meticulous about keeping track of his time. He was alone, and he had begun to walk with a small cane, wincing with every step from some ailment that betrayed no other outward symptom. An exquisitely dressed Tiny Tim.
As he crossed the foyer and entered the library hall, he caught a look at a tall, distinguished-looking lady admiring the crystal chandelier directly overhead. Though he did not know her on sight, something about her, her mannerisms maybe, seemed familiar. The way she held her martini glass, with the pinky finger held out just a little pretentiously, or the thin stream of smoke she exhaled after a puff on her cigar.
She was slender, and appeared to be well into her seventies, with leathery, wrinkled skin and gray hair tied behind her head in a bun.
In every way she appeared to be his complete opposite.
Argus approached as if he knew her. But when he presented himself, with a deliberately old-fashioned bow and flourish, it seemed momentarily that neither one recognized the other.
“On behalf of our kind that once called Prague home, I greet you,” he said.
Immediately a flash of recognition passed over the old woman’s face.
“Argus?” she said. “I should have known. Who dresses better than you?”
He was dressed impeccably, as always, his miniature three-piece suit tailored in perfect proportion to his toddler’s body.
“I accept your greeting, and pay you respect from my own followers, of Chaligny-Bastille,” she continued.
Now Argus’s face lit up with the same moment of epiphany, as though he had just laid his eyes on the woman for the first time.
“Cygnus, a pleasure, as always. How long have you been in New York?” he asked.
“Less than a day. I waited in Paris for as long as I could, hoping to gather as many of us as were left there.”
“Of course, your Haven likely suffered the greatest of all of our houses. How many were you able to bring?”
Her expression was dour. He knew her response was not going to be pleasant.
“Barely more than a dozen. Before the War we were three times that many. I had hoped that your city would fare better, but from what I’ve read I did not hold out much hope.”
“Your feeling was correct, I am sad to say,” Argus answered. “The Nazis ravaged my beautiful city, and the Soviets who replaced them are little better. Few of my followers emerged from hiding during the liberation. I come here very nearly alone. The Haven of the Three Shields is no more.”
A new voice broke in then, from a third figure that neither saw.
“So the stories I’ve heard are indeed true, and Prague has been lost to our kind. A terrible shame, but one which very closely mirrors my own trials.”
It was a child’s voice, higher pitched than Argus’s, but obviously prepubescent. When they both turned to see after it, they shifted their gaze and saw a beautiful little girl with blond ringlets and a fancy lace dress.
“Aeson?” Argus began.
“It is I, ever young, as I see you are as well, in this incarnation,” she replied.
The girl did not appear to be any older than five, but she spoke with the diction of a scholar.
“Your followers?” Cygnus questioned her.
“Reduced to a mere handful. When the Germans starved Leningrad, I watched our kind die side-by-side with the city’s inhabitants. Now there are only a few of us. Like you, we have abandoned our once great house in Peter’s city,” she answered, the sadness somehow more despondent when expressed on her delicate, girlish features.
“The war has left none of us unscathed. All the more reason for this new gathering of ours,” Argus said. “Has there been any news from the Keeper? I must confess that I have not been much in communication of late, and I do not even know the location of our fete.”
The little girl Aeson, who was sipping from a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, shook her head. Her curls seemed to dance across her shoulders.
“The Morrigan has left word here that the announcement will be made soon. Until then she has asked us to assist in bringing together as many of our kind as possible. For the moment, we have found a refuge here at this Haven, our common ground in New York for these many years.”
“Have we any idea how may of us there are?” Argus asked.
“Sadly, no one knows. So many were scattered over the past years, so many lost. This will be the first opportunity for a full accounting since the violence ended,” Aeson replied.
“Yes,” Cygnus followed, “but do not worry ancient one. I have been told that the plans are already in the works, and that we will soon know. The Morrigan will provide, as she always does.”
Pier 33 was deserted. A deathly still hung over it, as usual. The morning hours were waning, and the almost-midday sun had just begun to throw its warm, yellow light on the city.
Sam Calabrese, Indian Joe, and a trio of their closest associates navigated their way through alleyways of rusted iron. They were looking for one building in particular, and they had quickly found that most of the dilapidated structures on the site looked identical.
The network of scrap metal shacks and time-weathered warehouses ranged from the east end of the property, along the edges of the West Side Highway, to the unused dry dock on the west end. There the pier had been largely blocked off from the Hudson by a newly erected shipyard a few hundred yards north. It was part of the reason why no one had use
d the dockside spot for almost twenty years, despite its otherwise prime locale.
Indian Joe kicked at a junkie, curled up in a ball in their path. He didn’t move, and the party stepped over him like a piece of trash. That was the other reason no one ever came to this part of town. No one respectable, anyway.
They finally made their way before what Mr. Preston’s notes indicated was the largest of the warehouses. The corrugated metal on the outer walls was washed over in gritty shades of red and brown, and the glass panes of the windows had been shattered. A drainpipe oozed black filth out onto the pavement, which looked to have been broken, repaved, and re-broken numerous times. Each patch-up job made the place look worse, rather than better.
Inside, Calabrese threw a switch that seemed more suited to a mad scientist’s lab than a dockside storage unit. It crackled like an old-time transformer, and then a scattering of the several dozen-odd lamps that lined the length of the chamber lit up. It was a long, wide place, with a high ceiling and a dusty concrete floor.
Even after decades of neglect, some of the facilities still worked. The lights buzzed an institutional, electrical sound. While only about a fifth of the total number had sprung to life, it was enough to satisfy Sam.
“Very well,” he began, turning to get full a view of the empty, lonely place. “Lycaon, you may start moving our people here immediately. This place is rather spare, but we will make a home of it.”
Indian Joe nodded, but his expression was not one of satisfaction.
“The trucks are all loaded at the club, master. We can begin setting up here within hours. I’m afraid we have come across one other obstacle, however,” he said.
“Obstacle? Whatever it is, I’m sure you can handle it. You have my full confidence, as always. Do whatever you need to do,” Calabrese said, distracted by the enormity of the desolate structure.
“I have done all that I am able to, trapped for the time being in this form, at least. This difficulty, I fear, will require your attention.”
He turned from his contemplation then, and sighed.
“What is it?”
“The provisions. We have received all but the final shipment of our various narcotics from Mr. Huang’s couriers. He now reports that the last haul cost him more than he was expecting. He is refusing to turn it over unless we pay an additional, undisclosed fee.”
“I understand,” Calabrese said. “Very well. Oversee the arrangements here; I will pay a final visit to Mr. Huang.”
NINETEEN
THOUGH HE HAD NEVER BEEN TO SUNNYBROOK GARDENS, Vince was familiar with the place by reputation. It was way out in the rural hinterlands of northern New Jersey. In Sussex County, he thought, but he couldn’t be sure since the scenery all looked pretty much the same once you got past Hackensack.
It was a hell of a drive, especially in his sputtering ’37 Dodge, which wasn’t in the best of shape anyway. The old girl was just about to overheat when he found the secluded hospice, guarded by a veritable forest all its own at the end of a winding country road.
There was no sign, just a double gate of black-glazed iron, connected to a fence of the same sort, which seemed to ring the entire estate. A guard in a faded gray uniform was sipping his coffee when Vince pulled up. He looked as though he welcomed the interruption.
“No, I ain’t family,” Vince told him, in answer to his first question.
“I ain’t a friend of one of your guests neither,” he continued
And no, he hadn’t called ahead. He was there to see Francesco Pentone. Little Frankie, as most called him.
“Nobody by that name here,” the guy said quickly.
“You didn’t even check the register,” Vince snapped back.
“No need, nobody by that name here sir,” he answered.
Frustrated, Vince retrieved the paper from his coat pocket. Atop the address were a few words, a name in fact, scribbled hastily in pencil. He had ignored it previously.
“How about a Mr. Hoover? Mr. J. Edgar Hoover? Is he here?” the ex-cop asked.
The guard unlocked the gate without another word, not even an acknowledgement of the joke. Vince let it go. With the obstacle cleared he depressed the clutch and cranked the stick into second gear. Then he motored the rest of the way up toward the imposing old Victorian mansion, slowly so that he could take in a decent view of the stately gables and the sandstone exterior.
It was getting late. The sun was starting to paint the western sky in mournful shades of red and orange. A wash of clouds had rolled in from the west during his trip. That probably meant rain. It was cold, his breath condensed when he exhaled. Still just a bit too warm for snow, though.
He didn’t mention the name Little Frankie again, and he didn’t have to. The nurses were waiting for him when he arrived at the main entrance.
A sour-faced blonde who looked like she wanted to be anywhere but where she was directed him through the sterile, ammonia-smelling wards. The interior felt even more ancient than it looked from the outside. Despite the oppressive sting of bleach in the air, it wasn’t maintained particularly well. The windows were crusted with a yellowish film, and he felt a gentle tug on his feet as his soles clung to the invisible stickiness that coated the floor tiles.
Having passed through a series of winding beige hallways that seemed identical except for the different moans and wails that livened each corridor, the nurse led him to a courtyard. A few clearly misplaced Romanesque statues guarded the dying foliage, themselves hopelessly ensnared by honeysuckle vines and grass that hadn’t been trimmed since the summer. The small porch where he stood opened onto a larger set of gardens behind the main house.
“There he is. Visiting hours end in twenty minutes. You have until then,” the nurse said, leaving him for the cold bleakness of the interior. About forty feet away, standing motionless and regarding a maple tree with a little too much fascination, was a tall man.
Vince hardly recognized him. What had been a set of full, lively cheeks had turned gaunt, and his limbs had withered from their former heft. The always-fastidious dresser was unkempt, hiding under a cheap hospital gown and flannel pajamas. Several weeks’ worth of scruff hung off his chin. His hair had turned scraggly and longish, unwashed, greasy and fading to gray at the temples.
His eyes were sunken, and staring outward in silence. They didn’t look like the eyes of a killer anymore.
“Frank. Little Frankie,” Vince began.
It produced no response.
Even looking as haggard as he did, Frankie Pentone was still an imposing figure. His diminutive moniker had nothing to do with his size. That would have been obvious even if Vince hadn’t known the story behind it.
His father had been named Frank also, which would have made him Frank Jr., if his grandfather hadn’t shared the name too. “Juniors” and “the thirds” weren’t so odd, at least among private-school WASPs. But it wasn’t so common an arrangement among old-country Italians. First-born sons usually took their grandfather’s name.
Hence the double diminutive. His father had been known as Frankie to keep things straight between the first two Pentones to share the name. By the time he’d come along, the only thing left had been to attach a secondary diminutive to him. And so had the boy who would eventually grow into a six-foot-four, 237-pound frame, a boy who would kill a man with his bare hands at age sixteen, become tagged with the name Little Frankie.
“Eh, paesano, tuo amico Paolo e morto.”
Nothing.
“Did you hear me, Pentone? Your crew is dead. Don’t you want to know why?”
Still nothing.
“Ah, vaffanculo cost, you testa-dura. I’m wasting my time,” he sneered with a dismissive, obscene gesture from his crotch.
But as Vince turned to leave, the man finally moved. A hint of remembrance flickered in those empty, sickly eyes.
“Up my ass? Nobody talks to me that way,” he said, straining to see if he recalled the man in the trench coat and fedora.
�
�Do I know you? From the neighborhood?” he asked.
Vince smiled, which was hard to do under Frank Pen-tone’s eye.
“Yeah, Vinny Sicario, from over on Tenth Street, used to run with Paulie Tonsils.”
“Thought you were a cop.” His memory seemed to be coming back, if it had ever really been gone to start with.
“I was.”
“Well, you found me, whoever you are. So they sent an ex-cop to do it huh? Get it over with then, paisan. I ain’t gonna give you no trouble.”
“I’m not here for that. I want to talk. That’s all.”
Frankie didn’t seem convinced. He returned his gaze to the bare branches of the maple tree.
“Talk? Right. About what?” he said, speaking to the wind.
“Sam Calabrese. The new crew at the Sunset.” The man nicknamed “Little,” who was anything but, nodded.
“Got a smoke?” he asked.
Vince reached into his coat pocket. Frankie’s eyes drifted off toward the tall bushes at the far edge of the gardens. Vince handed him a cigarette and lit it, cupping his hands around the end to keep the flame from dying in the wind.
Frankie savored the first drag. It seemed to bring him back. Even though they weren’t anywhere near another human being, the fugitive gangster checked around to make sure they were truly alone before saying another word.
Vince had to wonder if the old wiseguy really had lost his mind.
Frankie started talking as the smoke was leaving his mouth.
“You sure you wanna hear about this shit?” he asked.
“No, but I need to,” Vince answered.
Frankie took a second long drag and shrugged his shoulders. He looked like he had more questions, but he didn’t ask anything else.
“It all started about three months ago. Everything was fine. Business as usual, you know?” he began, still a little more hushed than he really needed to be, given their seclusion. “Then one day this set of legs shows up in the place, dressed to the nines. Coulda been a hooker, the big guy had his share since the wife left, but this dame didn’t look like that. Too classy. Real put together, you know? But, I’ll tell you, a little scary too.”
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