by Linda Sands
At the door, Reilly looked back at the sleeping figure on the couch and whispered, “So maybe Fast Eddie isn’t so fast after all.”
High in the air over New York, Doc and Maria made love in the tiny cabin of the private jet. Afterward, getting dressed proved more difficult than getting undressed, but they worked well together, silently bending down, zipping up and sorting shoes. It was a choreographed play of politeness and grace. Grown-up love was so much neater than the hurried spasms of youth. Not less complicated, just a lot more reserved.
“We’ll be home soon,” Doc said. “Do you have plans for the rest of the weekend?”
“Plans? No. I had Sonja clear the calendar. The Cape will have to do without me for a few days.” She smiled. “Besides, I wasn’t sure if the weather would hold. I know how you hate to fly in the rain.”
“That would have been nice.”
“What’s that?”
“Me and you, stranded in a hotel room in Philadelphia for the whole weekend.” Doc smiled and drew Maria into his arms. He bent to her ear. “I love you.”
Maria answered him with a kiss, trying to tell him she wasn’t the same girl she’d been, that she was sorry for keeping secrets and that she finally deserved him. Unspoken words passed from her head to her mouth to her lips to his, like an urgent Morse code, dots and dashes of lip and tongue.
Deluca woke up on his couch. What the fuck? He felt around. His shirt was undone, his pants were in place, zipped and buttoned. His head hurt. He remembered escaping the party with Sailor. Then what? The rest of the night was unclear. The stereo was on, tuned. There were champagne glasses, one with a lipstick smeared rim, and an empty bottle in the ice bucket. If she was good enough for the Dom, why isn’t she here? And why am I on the couch? “You’re losing it, Eddie.” He hated losing.
After two hours of housework and a chat with her daughter Holly, Gina placed the call she’d been avoiding all day.
“Hello?”
Gina thought she had a wrong number and almost hung up. The voice sounded like Aunt Jeannie, not Hiram Berger.
“How are you feeling today, Detective?”
“Oh, shit. Don’t talk so loud. Do me a favor, G. Come over here and shoot me. Please?”
Gina stifled a laugh. She had given up hard liquor years ago. “Poor baby. Do you need anything?”
“Yeah, a new head, smaller and lighter. Oh, God. I don’t feel so good.”
Gina heard the phone drop, then running footsteps and retching. She winced and gingerly hung up.
She’d always dreamed of the perfect man, someone to share her life with. A man who was well-read, yet not snobby; well-liked but not narcissistic; good-looking, but not too vain. Hiram Berger was none of those things, and Gina wondered—not for the first time—why she was still with him.
Sailor wondered if she should call first or just show up. She didn’t want to interrupt if he had company, but she wanted to show him what she’d been doing all afternoon. She picked up the phone and hit redial.
“Hello?” Reilly said.
“How’s my hero?”
“How’s the helpless victim?”
Sailor laughed. “Better.”
“I got the pictures.”
“Really?”
“And Chinese.”
“Kung Pao?”
“Absolutely.”
“When?”
He said, “How about now?”
“On my way!”
With a bottle of Pinot Grigio under one arm and a bag from Jade Garden, Reilly was at Sailor’s door in less than three minutes.
They ate while Reilly messed with the photo disk. He enlarged and cropped, then printed out pictures of Berger and his party pals. Sailor pinned them to the dining room wall next to a magnetic dry-erase board. She’d written: Bentley, King and LeChance on one side and Berger, Deluca and Gallo on the other. There were more names underneath with strings on magnets connecting them.
Reilly pointed to Maria’s photo. “Who’s the fashion plate? She looks a little out of place.”
“That’s Maria Chetta.”
Reilly shrugged. The name meant nothing to him.
“She’s pretty big East Coast money according to Jeremy.”
“Jeremy?”
“Yeah. I asked him about as many people as I could, until he started getting suspicious. Then today, I ran the names through an internet search.” She pointed to the white board. “That’s what I got. Chetta’s heavy into local politics and charities in Massachusetts. She owns an import business called Angelina. The lady in the rainbow sausage dress is Kate Shanahan.”
“The wife of The Honorable E. Patrick ‘Pay-me-and-I’ll-throw-it-out’ Shanahan.”
“Reilly!” Sailor laughed.
“And who’s he?”
Sailor shrugged, squinting across the table at the picture of Doc. “I don’t know. But he’s nice arm candy.”
“Arm candy? I think I’m offended.”
Sailor chuckled. “You’ll get over it.” She leaned in, digging her chopsticks into Reilly’s take-out container. She looked at him. For a second, Reilly thought she was going to kiss him, until she said, “Is that the tofu delight?”
“Uh, yeah.” He let her have the container and watched her eat, wondering where she put it all. She didn’t seem to have an ounce of fat on her, at least not in the wrong places.
Sailor gestured to the empty spaces under some of the photos. “Maybe we’ll be able to fill in some of those blanks after tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Reilly, don’t tell me you forgot Graterford? The prison? Banning?”
“That’s tomorrow?”
Sailor nodded. “Banning said Ray Bentley’s one of the ten we’ll see. It’s going to be a very interesting day.”
Interesting wasn’t the word Reilly would have used. “I guess I must have forgotten to check my ‘Today I go to Prison Calendar’.”
Sailor laughed. “Oh. One more thing.” She pulled a computer disk in a green sleeve from her pocket.
Reilly looked at it. “And, this is?”
“Let’s just say it wasn’t a terrible night with Fast Eddie, and I am so glad he didn’t upgrade to Windows ME.”
Reilly smiled. He slipped the CD from the packaging and spun it on the table. “What’s on it?”
“Not sure. It’s like the papers from the shredder: initials, dates, abbreviations. There’s more, but the encryption will be harder to break.”
The disk clattered to the surface, wobbled then stopped. Sailor looked through a stack of papers, chose one and slid it to Reilly.
“This is the print-out.”
He glanced at the sheet, “What do you think it is?”
“I don’t know. It could be case files or a client list. What I can’t figure out is why Deluca would have it encrypted on his home computer?”
“Here’s a better question. How does Deluca afford a million dollar condo and oceanfront property in Seaside on a MDB&S salary? And why doesn’t Deluca have to call ahead for a table at Delmonico’s?”
“Delmonico’s?’ Isn’t that Moreno’s old place? Where Jimmy The Greek was gunned down?’
“The same.” Reilly laughed. “Listen to you. Gunned down. I’m afraid to tell you what Shelly said.”
“Who’s Shelly?”
Reilly waved his hand like he was shooing a fly. “Just a girl from the party. Turns out she’s from my old neighborhood.”
He hesitated, then said, “It wasn’t so different when I was growing up, kids hanging out on street corners. You hear stories. See things. I knew what bars to avoid, who owned what corner, that Friday was pay-up day. The Irish and the Italians had their own turf, and you were supposed to stick to your side of town. I knew about Lou Gallo and his crew. A bunch of low-lifes. My brother Sean lost an ear to one of Gallo’s boys in a poolroom brawl.”
Reilly leaned back in his chair. “My Uncle Mick had an import-export business. a warehouse on the docks. Always had cash in his
pockets, drove a new Caddy every year. Never seemed odd to me as a kid. Hell, I never knew what they imported or exported, never thought to ask. Didn’t hurt that he was Black Irish. He could blend with the Italians. Anyway, when Mick went to prison, his business ended up in Moreno’s hands.”
“Moreno? Not the…”
Reilly nodded.
Sailor grimaced. “Is it true? About the head?”
“Oh, yeah.” Reilly said. “Gallo killed him.”
“Gallo?”
Reilly shook his head, looked right at Sailor. “Gallo cut off Moreno’s head and delivered it in a pillowcase to his mother.”
“But Gallo had an alibi. And didn’t they indict John…”
Reilly shook his head. “According to Shelly and her cop pals, Gallo’s alibi was shit. The other guy went down as a favor to the family.”
Sailor watched Reilly sip his wine, then set the glass down gently, speaking softer now. “Cops didn’t care. Moreno had been getting harder and harder to handle. Nobody mourned the loss. And besides, the boys said Gallo paid better.”
“What else did you get from these guys?”
“More than you want to know.” Reilly tugged on the pocket of his cargo pants and withdrew a mini recorder. “Maybe you should hear for yourself.” Reilly pressed play.
The man’s voice was easy enough to hear over the music and the background sounds, like he was used to making himself heard in such situations and liked the sound of his voice.
“You wanna hear a story about the Mikey Hiram Berger? Well, bet you never heard this one. Hey, Joe, pass the pitcher. Let me see, it was ’76 or ’77. Me and Berger got assigned to the Twenty-Sixth. We had foot patrol. Fuckin’ sucked. My dogs would ache for hours after—used to have to soak ’em in Epsom salts every night. Anyways, we was up in this high-class neighborhood, just checking it out, when we hear this banging noise. We look around and see this guy standing in a window. Naked as the day he was born. Hair all wild and shit. He’s standing there smacking his palm against the glass, smacking hard enough to bust it. We figure we ought to check it out before he spooks the old lady across the street or scares some kid, you know? So, I go to the front door. Gonna ring the bell, right? But Berger? No. He goes over to the window and stands right in front of this guy. Me? I don’t know what this wacko is on, so I’m staying as far away as possible with one hand on my stick. Then I look over and here’s Berger, playing charades with the fuckin’ guy. Pushing his hands through his hair and tugging on his shirt. He even pretends to step into a pair of pants. Sure as shit, the wacko does the same thing. He stops the banging, pushes his hair down, puts on a shirt and steps into a pair of sweats. Then Berger points and the guy answers the door, invites us in without a word. Calm as a pussycat.”
On the tape, a woman’s voice asked, “Then what happened?”
The detective continued, “I’m getting to that part. The wacko was on some bad speed or some shit. Said he hadn’t slept in a week. Sure as hell hadn’t had a shower either. Jesus! It stunk in there. Berger told the guy to take a shower, then we’d talk. Well, I figure here was where we see what he’s holding, you know? High-class neighborhood and all that. Berger gives me the nod, and I head to the garage and he goes to the kitchen. I come back with the blow and some cash, and I see Berger tying up a trash bag and heating up soup.
A deep voice interrupted. “What the fuck?”
“Yeah, Berger’s playing fucking nurse maid to this wacko. But you know what? That guy comes downstairs all cleaned up and grateful that Berger makes a connection. That wack-job was Berger’s top informant for ten years. Without him, we never would’ve got Moreno in ’82. But that’s a whole other fucking story. Right boys?”
Reilly clicked off the recorder.
Sailor stared at him. “Holy shit. Is there more like that?’
Reilly yawned behind his hand. “You want to hear more?’ He slid the recorder to her. “I’ll be right back.”
Sailor listened to more wild tales, cops one-upping each other, trying to impress the women. She wrote down the names she heard: Four Eyes, Junior, White Shoes, Fat Ollie and Tony Cigars.
When Reilly returned from the bathroom, his eyes were brighter, his pupils enlarged. “So, sounds like you had a pretty interesting night. What about that guy Strom? What did he tell you?”
Sailor kept writing. “That my eyes are like pools of stars.”
Reilly looked at her and wondered how she could fall for crap like that.
“I think he’s sweet.”
“Sweet?” Reilly went off on an Italian accented comedic riff about donuts and tira misu and the wonderful things a man could do with a jelly filled donut when lonely.
Sailor laughed. “Stop,” she said. “You’re killing me.” She threw her napkin at him and they both laughed—harder than they should have, for longer than was necessary. They laughed because they had stepped in some deep shit, and the truly funny stuff was going to be far away for a long time.
Berger threw the can opener. “Motherfucking piece of shit!” It bounced off the wall, leaving a black mark and a four-inch dent then skittered across the vinyl tile. “Come on, you cocksucker! I just want a fucking bowl of soup.” He pressed down hard, punctured the tin and twisted the rusty handle. Three tries and two cuts later, the can opened.
He hadn’t eaten all day and wasn’t sure he could keep this down. But the shakes had finally stopped and he had things to do. Berger looked at the clock. Eight-thirty. While the chicken soup warmed in the microwave, he grabbed a bottle of water and swallowed four different pills. He ate the soup standing up at the counter, with a few beers to wash it down.
By the time he was halfway to the docks, Berger felt better. The drugs were kicking in and the dry heaves had passed. He still felt like he had fur on his tongue and a helmet on his head, but he’d meet Gallo and tell him one more time to go fuck himself. Then he’d drive straight home and sleep like the dead.
CHAPTER 13
Never on a Monday
SHAZAD had been awake for hours, listening to the sound of Ray sleeping. Out with the bad, in with the good. Out with the bad, in with the good. And after a while, Shazad climbed down from his tray and unrolled his rug on the cool cement floor.
He was sitting there when Ray woke. Without opening his eyes, Shazad said, “The papers and magazines are for Snap and Crackle. All of the books go to Pop.” Shazad pointed and Ray followed the finger to the yellow bin stamped with the letters, S.C.I. Graterford. When Ray didn’t reply, Shazad opened his eyes and looked at his cellmate. “You are sure you will be all right?”
“I’ll be fine. Just get your stuff together. They’ll be here any minute.”
Shazad rolled his worn rug. “I have no use for these things.” He offered it to Ray. “Remember, Ray, they do not own you. Your body is only here for them to count.”
The cell door clanged open. Deputy Scruggs stood outside. “Said all your goodbyes, Shazam?”
Shazad ignored the dig and slipped into his prison shoes for the last time.
“Come on, they’re ready for you in discharge.”
Ray touched knuckles with Shazad, “On the one, my man.”
“On the one, my friend.”
Before the door slammed shut, Shazad called back, “Everything will be fine, Ray. You will see.”
Deluca paced in his office, tapping a rhythm on the coins in his pocket. He checked his Rolex. Two minutes. He walked to the adjoining bathroom, stood in front of the mirror and raised his hand then dropped it. There was nothing left to adjust.
The intercom on his desk beeped, then Mimi said, “Mr. Deluca, Miss Beaumont is here.”
Deluca called, “Send her in, Mimi. And see if she’d like coffee or something.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mimi looked up at Sailor. “Would you like some coffee?”
“No. I’m fine. Thank you.”
“He’ll see you now.”
Mimi watched the girl close the heavy mahogany door beh
ind her. She hoped Fast Eddie knew what he was doing. Sailor was an intern, but this wasn’t the White House. What the hell was Deluca doing here at seven a.m. on a Monday morning with a beautiful young girl behind closed doors? And why was he wearing his favorite Hugo Boss jacket?
Deluca’s nervousness disappeared the moment he saw her. Something about her presence was soothing. He slipped behind his desk and gave her his best money making smile. “Good morning, Miss Beaumont.”
Sailor sat down across from him and crossed her legs. If this had been the forties she would have tugged up her gloves and asked for light. She was that classy. “It’s back to Miss Beaumont, is it? Eddie, call me Sailor.”
“Sailor.” Seeming pleased with the feel of it, he said it again. “Sailor, perhaps you’re wondering why I called you here.” He kept his eyes on her, still trying to figure out what she had done to him the other night. Or what he might have done to her.
“It has come to my attention that with your connections and social background, you might do well with more high profile cases. I have suggested to Ted that I intern you here, myself. That would be in addition to your responsibilities with Len, unless that would be too much.”
“Not at all.” Sailor smiled. She toyed with her pendant necklace, uncrossing her long legs then wrapping them in the other direction. Eddie felt an urge to leap over the desk and throw himself at her feet. He thought for one second that he’d give her anything she asked for and in return he’d be able to touch her and be humbled by her. He felt that just being near her made him a better man. Then he blinked and shook his head. What the fuck?
Sailor spoke, breaking the trance. “So, you’d want me to start tomorrow, then?”
Deluca nodded. He watched her leave, even heard the door close behind her, but could have sworn that he was miles away, lying naked on a warm sandy beach.
Len Banning backed his Jag out of the garage, humming along to the Top 40 Station. He hardly ever sang anymore. The house was too empty, the stereo system too damn confusing and the shower had crappy acoustics. But all that was going to change. He had the realtor out right now nailing down properties that had “Len Banning” written all over them. One was a Craftsman-style house on three acres with a barn and workshop. Len smiled. I’m going to get three big dogs. Hell, maybe even a cat.