“She’s with Lou,” Monk said. He stared down the alley. Where were they?”
“Fleener? The chubbo? What makes you think I can’t just take her?”
The idea made Monk laugh. “Lou’s tougher than you think. You’d best not try it.” But the idea was terrific. Monk pictured Mario going just a little too far. What a lovely idea.
“Hmph. Fleener gets the broad. What’s that all about?”
“There they are,” said Monk. His hand emerged from the dark to point. “Over there.”
A couple of guys got out of a sedan and walked across the alley, carefully avoiding the refuse. They wore black suits and one carried a briefcase that caught the light on a polished surface. They opened a door beneath a bare light bulb and disappeared inside.
“Take the driver,” Monk said, “then join me inside.”
“Sure.”
Mario slipped away into the shadows and Monk went to the door. He felt a thrill of anticipation at what he was doing. This was the beginning of the end. Somehow the thought that he’d already sent Lou and Jefferson out on missions of their own didn’t matter as much. This was the real end of the war.
Firm grasp on the doorknob, deep breath and go.
He tightened his grip on the shotgun held at his side beneath his coat and stepped into a dark storeroom. Cases of beer lined the walls; the smell of cheap booze assaulted his nostrils. He strode quickly to the door and stepped inside.
He remembered it from his last visit with Lou; the bar along the left, the dark booths on the right. Three men stood by the bar, the two men in suits from the alley and the bartender with a white apron. They froze when they saw him, gaping like fish. Monk raised the shotgun and pointed it from the hip, making it a menace to everyone. “I want the case.”
“What?” The bartender recovered first. “Who are you?”
“Nobody,” said Monk. “Just give me the case and I’ll be on my way.”
“You can’t have it.” Outrage covered the man.
He’d never imagined a situation like this. “This is mob money, pal.” Nobody, his expression said, took mob money.
“You there,” Monk said, pointing with the gun.
“Set the case on the bar and slide it over.”
The man didn’t move. He stared through eyes narrowed to slits, squinting in the dim light as if trying to memorize every line on Monk’s face. “You’re dead,” he said. His voice was a rasping whisper, like a snake or a breath from the grave.
Monk shivered.
“Give it to him,” the guy whispered and the other man obediently placed the case on the bar.
Mario came in from the back. “I got him. The driver, I got him.”
The bartender made a move. From under the bar he hefted a short-barreled colt, swinging it in their direction.
Monk yelled, “No!” and swiveled the shotgun as a threat.
But Mario reacted first. He squeezed the trigger of the thirty-eight in his hand and fired six shots. The bartender flew backwards and glass shattered, spilling liquor in a wave. The two suits held up hands as if trying to ward off the bullets, jerked like puppets and fell to the floor. Blood seeped onto the vinyl.
“What did you just do?” demanded Monk. “What did you do?”
“He was drawing on me,” yelled Mario. “He was gonna kill us.”
“Shit.” Monk was panting, his breath ragged.
What to do? The case. Get the case. He went forward and grabbed it from the bar, sweeping broken glass from it as he picked it up. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Sure.” Mario spun on his heel and they ran for the door. Monk paused before going, staring at the carnage he was leaving behind. Even in Korea he’d never seen death this close and violent. He felt as if the scene would be etched on his brain forever.
“It’s started,” he said softly. “The end has started.”
Chapter 39
And hope they fall apart before we do
“He’s a homicidal maniac.” Monk paced around the crowded parlor. It was three-thirty in the morning and they had all returned from the night’s activities. Lou had arrived jubilant, smiling and high with an adrenalin buzz. He dropped a bag on the floor and grinned at everyone. Cassidy seemed to glow with pleasure.
Paul E. Smalls had gotten back next and staked out a chair. He was sipping whiskey and sucking on the day’s sixtieth Chesterfield. He looked like a cat with cream.
Jefferson was more subdued, but still excited and pleased. He placed a pair of brown paper bags on the floor next to Lou’s case and looked around expectantly. “What’s next?”
Monk had burst in with a hangdog Mario following him. Everyone looked at him when he exploded.
“Do you know what this son of a bitch did?” he yelled and Cassidy made a hushing motion.
“The neighbors,” she whispered.
“Do you know what?” Monk demanded, but in slightly lower tones. “He killed them. He shot them down like they were dogs. Emptied his gun and three men are dead.” He stared at Lou. “They’re dead.”
“It’s not my fault.” Mario had been saying it over and over since they jumped in the car and sped off into the night.
“I had them covered,” Monk shouted and Cassidy shushed him again. His hands were clenching and opening as if he was strangling someone and Mario flinched when he was looked at. It wasn’t hard to imagine who Monk wanted to throttle.
“What happened?”
“They were gonna kill us,” Mario said again, and rushed on to stop Monk. “The bar guy, he had a gun and he was bringing it up. He was gonna shoot—he was!”
“I could have stopped him.”
“You don’t know that.” Mario’s face was flushed with anger and maybe regret, as if he knew he’d reacted too fast and three men were dead because of it. “You don’t know he was gonna stop.”
“Argh,” Monk jerked away, fleeing the very few feet to the door to his room. He kept his back to them as he clutched his arms around his chest and swayed back and forth, keeping the emotions in check.
Everyone turned to look at Mario. The silence in the room became thick and accusatory. Mario glared back. “Screw this. I’m gonna get a whore.” He slammed the door on his way out.
The euphoria vanished, replaced with downcast eyes and avoidance of the door and Monk.
“Maybe we should all go to sleep,” Cassidy said into the quiet room. Nobody moved.
“I think she’s right,” said Lou. “I’m turning in.”
“Me, too.”
“Yeah, right.” Paul E. Smalls drifted toward the door.
“What about him?” Cassidy asked, pointing at Monk.
“He’ll be fine. I’ll talk to him in the morning.”
She nodded and left for the bedroom. They heard the door close as they prepared for a long night of troubled sleep.”
*
Lou got up as the dawn painted the sky, a delicate blue. He walked into the parlor wearing a thick white terry cloth robe that said ‘Hilton’ in red lettering on the breast and sat down at the kitchen table where Monk leaned with his elbows on the glass. In his hands Monk clutched something that he twisted around and around as if it was a rosary.
Lou set about pouring coffee and smoked a cigarette in the dim light while he waited. Monk neither spoke nor looked up.
“It’s not your fault you know,” Lou said. “Them dying. It’s not your fault.”
“I know that.” His voice was raw with emotion or too many Camels. The object was being caressed between his thumb and finger, like a lover or a good luck charm.
“Then what?” Lou asked.
“So soon,” Monk answered. “I didn’t think it would happen so soon.”
“What? Dead guys? What difference does soon make?”
“They didn’t have to die, Lou.” Monk shook his head and finally looked up. His eyes were red with grief.
“That doesn’t matter. They were gonna die, or somebody else was gonna die. It was gonna happen so
oner or later.” He sipped his coffee. “What did you expect, Monk? That nobody was gonna get hurt in this little war of yours?”
“Mario didn’t have to shoot them,” Monk insisted.
“Bloodthirsty little psycho, I’ll give you that. We’d be better off without him.”
“Of course, we would. But we have him. At least we will if he comes back.”
“I hope he doesn’t. Monk, if we’re gonna do this, there’s going to be people dying. Hopefully it will be their guys. We’re outnumbered and they really are out to kill us.”
“I know that. Hell, this is my idea. It’s just—”
“What?”
“Lou, you didn’t see them. Blood everywhere, you could almost taste it, like copper. And the gunpowder smell. It was awful.”
“Yeah, it is. I saw a lot of it in Korea.”
“I was a clerk, for Christ sake. A company Clerk. I never knew it was like that.”
“Welcome to the club, pal.”
They sat in silence while the sky brightened and the patio doors filled the room with the yellow brightness of a new day. Eventually they heard Cassidy begin to stir.
“Well,” Monk sighed. “I guess it’s time to get started again.” He felt more tired than he’d ever been, as if the weight of the dead men was on his shoulders.
“Yeah,” said Lou. “Time.”
Chapter 40
With luck, we’ll get what we need
Monk said, “So what’d we get?”
Everyone was up; all had eaten or not eaten and showered or not showered, and dressed in what they were wearing the night before. Only Cassidy was fresh and well dressed in a blouse and skirt, having commandeered the bathroom for nearly an hour. “It’s my god damn bathroom,” she’d snarled through the locked door.
He sat at the table and the guys brought over bags from the night’s labors, setting them in front of Monk like a tribute. He unzipped the first, Paul E.’s number bag, and dumped its contents. A pile of bills spilled out. Crumpled and worn, bundled with rubber bands, the lumps of green paper squatted on the table like toads. With them was a small notebook. Monk picked it up and a yellow stub of a pencil fell out.
He opened the notebook, skimmed a couple of entries and said, “Ah. Here we go. There is fifty-six hundred and twenty-seven dollars here.”
“Great!” Paul E. laughed out loud. “Beat that, huh?”
“I bet,” said Jefferson. He tossed his own two bags on the table where they slumped in a dirty brown heap. The bags were wrinkled and sweat stained, looking like garbage or somebody’s groceries.
“Open them,” said Cassidy. This was like Christmas! She reached over and picked up one of the packs of money, folding bills back to see what was under them. At least for the moment she was pleased she’d stayed.
Monk opened the first bag and pulled out three clear plastic bags. Jefferson said, “Holy Mother Mary.”
“What is it?” asked Cassidy. She pulled a bag over.
“It looks like sugar.”
“It’s horse,” said Jefferson.”
“What?”
“Heroin,” said Paul E. Smalls. Cassidy dropped it like it was hot. She rubbed her fingers.
“Right,” said Monk. He stared at the bags. “We might be able to use those,” he said at last.
“You’re kidding,” said Lou with disbelief. Heroin was the hard stuff, as scary as poison. He remembered hearing about opium dens in Singapore, and GI’s hooked, screaming in withdrawal. He wanted no part of it.
“Not for us,” Monk corrected. “But the police, when the time comes, they might be very interested.”
“Open the other bag,” said Jefferson.
“Sure.” Monk emptied it. This time the bills were newer, bundled with bank papers. Monk counted the bundles as he piled them, the others all counting with him. “Eight, nine, ten,” he said. “50 one hundred-dollar bills in each stack, ten stacks, fifty thousand dollars.”
“Wow,” said Monk.
“Wow,” agreed Cassidy. She hastily dropped the old bundle and picked up one of the new ones. She clutched it to her chest and felt like crying, she was so happy.
“I can’t believe it,” said Paul E. Smalls.
“I win,” said Jefferson softly. They all turned to look at him and began laughing.
“So far,” said Lou. “Do mine next.”
Monk shrugged and pushed the pile of cash toward Cassidy who pulled it even closer. She kept one arm around the piles as if penning them in. Monk picked up the valise and pulled at the zipper. He reached inside and took out another pile of bills, also hundreds, and neatly banded. “Ten thousand,” he intoned, sounding like an appraiser.
“Hah,” said Paul E. and “I still win,” said Jefferson.
“Not yet.” Monk was fishing inside the bag. He came out with a black velvet cloth which he placed on the table. He set the valise on the floor and slowly opened the folded velvet. A sparkle came as the light hit and Cassidy gasped in wonder. There was a tiara and two sets of earrings and a necklace, all large and gleaming with the brilliance of diamonds. “Are those-?”
“Diamonds,” Monk said.
“And rubies,” said Paul E. He was leaning closely over the gems, touching them with a gentle forefinger. “I did some work with a jewelry store a while back. These are the real thing.”
“No wonder they had five guards,” said Lou. Jefferson glanced at him. “How’d you take down five guards, by yourself?”
Cassidy, her eyes never leaving the gems, said, “He beat them up.”
Jefferson’s eyes widened. “You’re better than you look.”
“I hear that a lot,” said Lou.
“How much you figure they’re worth?” asked Monk.
Paul E. shook his head. “I dunno. Could be a few hundred-grand easy. Maybe half a million. This is so far out of our league.” But he was grinning when he said it.
Quietly, Cassidy had set the cash aside and pulled the velvet cloth toward herself. Now the gems were within the circle of her arms. She looked like she had died and gone to heaven.
There was silence for a while, broken by Lou saying, “Anyone want coffee? I’ll make it fresh.” The mundane question broke the spell.
“Sure,”
“Yeah, I’ll take some.”
“All right.”
Cigarettes were lit as Lou poured. Everyone settled back, pretending to relax. Finally, Cassidy said what everyone was wondering. “What’s the last one?”
“The briefcase,” said Monk. Sourly he added, “The one we killed for.”
He picked it up. The black leather briefcase gleamed with polish and smelled like rich leather. There were two gold latches on the narrow front. Monk tilted the case and examined them. “They’re locked,” he said.
“No problem.” Paul E. pulled out a large pocket knife, selected the thickest blade and offered it, hilt first. Monk used it to pry at the tiny clasps and one by one they sprung open. He set the case back and opened it, blocking everyone’s view with the lid.
“Oh my God,” he said. “What?”
“We’ve hit the mother lode,” he said softly. “What is it?”
Monk stood up and turned the case around. Over the top he pointed. “Those are blank plates,” he said. “Twenty-dollar bills.”
“Counterfeit?” said Paul E. “Are they real?”
“They sure look like it,” said Monk.
“If they are real, they’re worth...” Paul E. whistled.
“Twenty years,” said Jefferson. They turned to stare. “In Leavenworth. Those are Federal crimes right there. That’s as deep as you can get without committing treason. Even the Heroin is small time compared to this.”
‘Why’d Scolio have them?” asked Lou. “And why were they trading them at a bar at two in the morning?”
“I don’t know,” Monk said. “But we’d better find out.”
“And soon,” added Jefferson. “Real damn soon.”
“Wait a second,” said Paul E
. “What about Mario?”
“Screw Mario,” Monk said bitterly. He was holding the black ledger from the valise but the question distracted him before he opened it.
“Sure,” agreed Jefferson. “But it ain’t a good idea, him running around out there.”
“Maybe they’ll kill him,” suggested Lou, and everybody considered that for a moment.
“Maybe he’ll talk first,” said Jefferson.
“Maybe he will,” agreed Paul E. Smalls.
They all looked at each other, silently thinking the same thoughts.
Monk put it into words. “It’s time to end this.”
“What?” Cassidy, leaning over the table, her arms circling the gems and the money as if they were chicks being protected, then she sat up.
“Cassidy, we need to leave, “said Lou.
“Leave what? Leave here?” Her voice was a wail. “Leave the Hilton?”
“Yeah, we have to.”
“No.” She dropped her head on a pile of swag and sighed deeply, a moan of infinite sadness.
Chapter 41
Before they kill us all
Mario Caputo woke up sore and hung over, completely unaware he was being sold out for a shot of heroin. He rose on his elbow, blinking in the dim light and wondered where in hell he was. His mouth felt like he’d been eating sand, his head throbbed and he seemed to be naked.
Naked. Ah. Denice. After storming out of the Hilton, right through the front door in his cheap robbery clothes, and to hell with them all, he’d headed down south to Broadway where he knew some girls who worked late. Didn’t take long to find one either, a dark-skinned girl name Denice from some south sea island somewhere. The Philippines, maybe; or Guam. She wore a short skirt and midriff baring blouse and was blown away by the limo.
“You gone up town?” she asked, feeling up the leather seats. She wanted to do it right there in the car. “Give you a freebie,” she said. “The smell of leather turns me on.”
Mario vaguely remembered agreeing and thought that some of his current bruises were from the inventive positions required in the back of a Lincoln. They drove to her place, a dive in the garden level of a three story near DuMont.
The place smelled of old sweat and dry rot. The mattress was on the floor and the bulb was unshaded. He shook his head at how far he’d fallen from the Hilton. He remembered killing those guys and sank back with a groan. When his head stopped spinning he decided he’d try to reach his clothes and get his smokes. He needed a cigarette in the worst way.
Missing Amanda Page 23