Rising Fire

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  And Felicia paid for everything. All of Johnny’s old tricks from his days in Venice as Count Malatesta came back to him, and although he successfully maintained the illusion of wealth, it was Felicia who forked over for all the expenses, without seeming to mind or even notice.

  One night as Johnny entered the foyer of the nameless, all-but-unknown restaurant where Scaramello held court, Pete leered at him and said, “The old bat let you off the leash tonight, eh, kid?”

  Anger immediately bubbled up inside Johnny.

  “Shut up, Pete,” he snapped, confident that he was well positioned enough in the organization to say such a thing. “Felicia’s not an old bat, and I don’t wear a stinkin’ leash.”

  Pete cuffed him on the arm, playfully but with enough force to knock Johnny a step to the side.

  “Watch your mouth, bambino. You’re doin’ pretty good for yourself these days, but I been around a lot longer than you. I’ve seen how things don’t always last.”

  Johnny straightened his coat and sniffed.

  “I’m not worried about that,” he said.

  “Maybe you better be.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Johnny asked with a curious frown. “I’ve been doing everything Nick asks me to do, and a pretty good job of it, too.”

  “I’m just sayin’,” Pete rumbled, “that guys who start ridin’ too high are usually ridin’ for a fall.”

  Johnny just shook his head disgustedly, pushed past the big man, and walked into the restaurant’s main room. He headed for the big table in the back where, at the moment, Scaramello sat talking to Anthony Migliazzi.

  The bookkeeper was a scrawny, dark-haired man who always looked like he’d just bitten into a lemon. He wore spectacles and his dark suits were always a little dusty and threadbare, even though as one of Nick’s top subordinates, he could afford to dress much better. He was saying something to Scaramello, but his trap snapped shut when he saw Johnny approaching the table.

  Scaramello had both hands resting flat on the table. He lifted the index finger of the right one in a signal to Migliazzi and said, “We’ll talk more later, Anthony.”

  Migliazzi nodded, stood up, and left.

  Scaramello waved expansively as Johnny came up to the table.

  “Sit down,” he invited, then added as if they had just happened to encounter each other, “It’s good to see you again, Johnny.”

  “I saw you just a couple of days ago, Nick,” Johnny said as he sat down. “It hasn’t been that long.”

  “And you have somebody else a lot prettier to spend your time with now, eh?” Scaramello grinned as he spoke, but his eyes glittered with possible anger.

  “You know Felicia’s not nearly as important to me as you, boss.” Johnny wanted to head off any problems before they got blown out of proportion. “I still do my job, and I always will. If you’ve got something you want me to handle, just say the word and it’ll be handled.”

  “Nah, that’s not it. I admire you, kid. Mrs. Brighton’s still a good-looking woman . . . and she doesn’t mind paying for things, am I right?”

  Johnny shrugged and said, “She likes buying things for me.”

  “Like that ring.”

  Johnny glanced down at his hand. The ring, with a large opal in an elaborate gold setting, was on the gaudy side, but Johnny liked it. When he’d admired it in a jewelry store window, Felicia had insisted on buying it for him.

  “It’s a nice ring,” he said to Scaramello.

  “Sure, sure. Hey, we’ve gotten off the track here. You know Georgie Anselmo?”

  “The guy who owns Frederico’s?” Johnny asked with a frown. “Sure. What about him? He giving you trouble? You want me to pay him a visit?”

  Scaramello waved that away.

  “No, no, not at all. Georgie and I talk from time to time, and he was telling me about what happened that first night you met Mrs. Brighton. He said there was a little trouble upstairs . . .”

  “Nothing important,” Johnny said, shrugging it off. “That guy she came in with, Ted Bassingham, came upstairs looking for her and got his nose out of joint because she was with me by then and didn’t want to leave with him. He took a poke at me and I put him on the floor, but I didn’t really hurt him. Then a couple of Anselmo’s men hustled him out of there, and that was the end of it.”

  “Bassingham’s old man is important. Owns a bank and part of a steamship line and a railroad. He’s making noises about trying to have you arrested, but I can make sure that doesn’t ever happen. Still, it draws attention to me in other parts of town, and I don’t like that.”

  “I’m sorry, Nick,” Johnny said, and meant it. “I never intended for that to happen. I just—”

  “You just saw a chance to get next to a rich, good-looking woman and took it.” Scaramello shook his head. “I could never blame you for that, kid. I’m just saying, keep your wits about you from now on. You’re young, sometimes you do things without thinking, especially if there’s a woman involved.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Johnny promised.

  “Like that ten grand, for example.”

  Johnny frowned and said, “Ten grand? What ten grand?”

  “The money you dropped at the roulette wheel in Frederico’s that first night, showing off for the lady and betting with money that Georgie advanced to you.”

  “Oh,” Johnny said. “So that’s what this is about. Anselmo wants his money.” He shook his head. “I’m good for it, Nick, you know that. He’ll get it. I’m making good money working for you. I just need to save up a little more.”

  There was a little bit of truth to that. Johnny was making decent money—but he wasn’t saving any of it. Even with Felicia picking up the tab for a lot of things, that wasn’t enough for him to live the way he wanted to, so just about everything that came in went right back out again.

  “Mrs. Brighton has plenty of loot,” Scaramello said.

  Without thinking about what he was doing, Johnny shook his head, defying his boss.

  “I don’t mind letting her pay for things, but I haven’t asked her for any money outright yet,” he said. “I’d just as soon not do that, Nick. But I’m sure if you talk to Anselmo again, he’ll understand. Just tell him I’ll pay him back when I can. I mean, who’s gonna argue with you?”

  Scaramello sighed, leaned back in his chair, and nodded.

  “That’s true,” he admitted. “Georgie will go along with whatever I say.”

  Glad to have that little problem behind him, Johnny leaned forward eagerly and said, “So, you have something you need done this evening?”

  “No, no.” Scaramello made a small gesture as if sweeping something off the table. “I just wanted to discuss these matters with you. You know I take an interest in the lives of everybody who works for me. I like to look out for all the people in the neighborhood.”

  “Sure, Nick. That’s why everybody loves you.”

  “Why don’t you just go on home . . . or to Mrs. Brighton’s place, I should say . . . and enjoy the rest of your evening?”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m certain. I’m always certain when I say something.”

  “All right,” Johnny said as he got to his feet. “But if you need anything, anything at all, you just let me know. I owe you a lot, Nick.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, you do. Good night, kid.”

  Still feeling vaguely troubled, Johnny left the restaurant. He caught a horse-drawn cab and had the driver take him to Riverside Drive. Earlier in the day, he had told Felicia not to expect him tonight since he knew he was supposed to go see Scaramello at the restaurant and figured the boss would have something for him to do. She had pouted when he told her, but maybe she would be happy to see him. Even if she wanted to stay mad, he was sure he could cajole her out of her bad mood.

  “This is good,” he told the driver when the cab was still a couple of blocks away from Felicia’s house. Johnny stepped out and paid the man, adding a generous tip. He didn’t have muc
h ready cash right at the moment, but he could always act as if he did. Maintaining an illusion was a big part of making it a reality.

  He strolled along the sidewalk. He enjoyed looking at the big, fancy houses with their well-manicured lawns and flower beds enclosed by ornate wrought iron fences. That was why he’d gotten out of the cab early. Spending time at Felicia’s place was fine, but someday he was going to own a house like one of those for himself. He would be the big boss, the man whose word made everybody jump.

  He was still half a block from his destination when a figure stepped out of some shadows up ahead and said, “Malatesta.”

  The voice was dry as dirt and made Johnny think of a grave. Fear jumped up inside him for a second, but then he calmed himself. He didn’t have the shillelagh, but he had a knife in his pocket and didn’t mind using it. Besides, there was something familiar about the voice, even though he didn’t recognize it right away.

  Then he did as the man went on, “Nick wanted me to talk to you.”

  “Anthony!” Johnny exclaimed. He hardly ever heard the bookkeeper speak. That was why he hadn’t recognized Migliazzi’s voice right away. “You scared me there for a second.” Johnny frowned. “What’re you doing here? You say Nick sent you to find me? He’s got a job for me after all?”

  “I said he sent me to talk to you,” Migliazzi corrected. “He said that after your conversation, it was apparent you didn’t fully understand the situation and required a better explanation.”

  “A better . . . What’re you talking about, Anthony? What situation?”

  “The money you lost at Frederico’s.”

  “That again?” Johnny didn’t bother trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. “Is Anselmo already crying again? I told Nick, I’ll get the guy his money, it’s just a matter of time—”

  “That’s what you don’t understand,” Migliazzi interrupted. “George Anselmo runs Frederico’s, but he doesn’t own it. Nick does.” The bookkeeper moved closer. “You don’t owe that ten thousand dollars to Anselmo. You owe it to Nick.”

  That news surprised Johnny but didn’t throw him completely for a loop. Now that he thought about it, he supposed it made sense. Nick didn’t like to draw attention to himself. He probably owned a lot of businesses in Little Italy that people didn’t know about.

  “All right, I get it. I owe the money to Nick. But the same thing still goes. I’ll pay him back. I mean, he ought to know better than anybody else that I’m good for it. I work for him, for Pete’s sake!”

  “He also knows that a debt left outstanding too long starts to stink, like a fish. You can get the money, Malatesta.” The bookkeeper leaned his head toward Felicia’s house. “All you have to do is ask for it.”

  “I can’t do that! It would make me look like a—”

  “Sleazy, low-class gigolo?”

  For the second time tonight, anger surged up inside Johnny. He stepped toward Migliazzi and grabbed the man’s shirtfront, bunching his fists in the material.

  “You little weasel!” Johnny said as he jerked Migliazzi toward him. “Did Nick send you to put the strong-arm on me? You? Why, I can bust you in half—”

  “No,” a voice like distant thunder rumbled behind Johnny. “Nick just sent Ant’ony to try to talk some sense into you. He sent me to strong-arm you.”

  Johnny let go of Migliazzi and tried to turn around, but he was too late. Pete’s massive fist slammed into the side of his head and drove him to the sidewalk.

  “‘For Pete’s sake,’ you said. That’s funny. You didn’t know ol’ Pete was standin’ right behind you.”

  Johnny rolled onto his back and held up his hands toward the giant figure looming over him, saying desperately, “Listen, you don’t have to do this—”

  “Sooner or later, everybody gets too big for his britches and has to be taught a lesson. You got there faster than most, kid. I guess that’s because you got too much ambition in you. You think you’re too smart to listen to advice. But we can take care o’ that.”

  “Wait!” Johnny cried.

  But of course, Pete didn’t wait. His foot slammed into Johnny’s side. Johnny gasped in agony and tried to curl up around the pain. Pete didn’t let him do that. Another kick straightened him out, and then Pete bent over him, got hold of Johnny’s shirt in his left hand, and lifted him a little off the sidewalk. The big man’s right fist sledged down, again and again, until Johnny didn’t feel it smashing into his face anymore. He wasn’t even aware of the final two kicks that Pete gave him and didn’t know it when he was dumped in the back of a wagon that rolled away from Riverside Drive and the big houses looking down upon it.

  CHAPTER 28

  Later, Johnny became aware of the swaying, jolting motion of the wagon, but he didn’t fully regain consciousness until he was lying in the dirt of an alley behind the rooming house in Little Italy where he lived. He was sprawled on his belly and had grit and a horrible taste in his mouth. He tried to lift his head so he could spit, but when he did that, his head seemed to explode, flying apart in a million pieces. He groaned as he let it slump to the ground again.

  The pain inside his skull gradually receded. As it did, he realized how much he hurt all over. At first his brain was too stunned to remember what had happened, but slowly it came back to him. Pete and Migliazzi . . . the money he owed, not to George Anselmo as he had thought but to Nick Scaramello instead . . . the brutal beating Pete had given him just down the block from Felicia’s house . . .

  Felicia! The thought of her made Johnny lift his head again, and this time he pushed aside the resulting pain. Would Scaramello go after her, try to muscle the ten grand out of her? Johnny didn’t think so, but who could be certain what that animal was capable of?

  He struggled to his hands and knees. He had to get to her, warn her. But if he showed up looking like this, covered with blood and bruises from a beating, she would be horrified. She would realize he was just a cheap crook and wouldn’t have anything else to do with him. He had to get cleaned up first, before he went to see her. He’d probably still look pretty bad, but not as bad as he must now.

  When he got to his feet, he couldn’t stop the low cry of pain that came from his lips. With every step as he stumbled out of the alley and around to the front of the building, he seemed to feel Pete’s fists hammering into him again. A twinge in his side every time he took a breath made him think he probably had a cracked rib.

  As long as it was just cracked and not fractured and stabbing into his lung, he could live with it, he told himself.

  Scaramello wasn’t likely to hurt Felicia. She was his best bet when it came to getting that money. Johnny could get it out of her. Of course he could. He had done the same thing with other women, plenty of times, although usually not for such a large sum.

  In fact, the last time he had tried to get ten grand out of a woman had been in Venice, with Denise Jensen. That hadn’t worked out. It had almost been his downfall, permanently.

  But not this time, he vowed as he started struggling up the steps to the front door of the brownstone. Felicia would give him what he needed.

  “Well, what in the world has happened to you? Not that you don’t deserve it, whatever it was.”

  For a second, Johnny thought he’d imagined the gloating voice. Then he turned his head, setting off more little explosions in his head, and saw Ted Bassingham standing there on the sidewalk with another man. In the faint light that came from nearby windows, Johnny could tell that the redheaded man was smirking.

  The man with Bassingham was a burly gent in a derby and overcoat, even though the night was fairly warm. He said, “This is the guy, isn’t it, Mr. Bassingham? I told you I could find him. Looks like somebody else has already worked him over.”

  “Yes, Harcourt, this is the man,” Bassingham answered. “And I don’t really care what else has happened to him tonight. By the time I’m finished with him, he won’t be in any shape to ever go near Mrs. Brighton again. Even if he does, his face won’t
be pretty enough anymore to interest her.”

  Johnny leaned against the railing alongside the steps and stared in amazement at Bassingham. The twists that fate could take in a man’s life!

  After a few seconds, he laughed hollowly.

  “You’re going to teach me a lesson, are you, Ted? You tried that at Frederico’s. It didn’t work out very well for you, did it?”

  Bassingham’s face darkened as he scowled. He clenched his fists and stepped forward.

  “Tonight’s going to be different.”

  “Yeah, because I’m already hurt. I can’t put up much of a fight. And you’ve got that gorilla there to help you. What’s he going to do, hold my arms while you pound me?”

  “It’ll still be my fists landing on that smug face of yours,” Bassingham said. His upper lip curled as he came closer and poised himself to attack.

  Johnny never knew where he found the strength, but as Bassingham lunged at him, he clung to the railing, lifted his right leg, and drove the heel of that shoe into the wealthy young man’s chest. The kick threw Bassingham backward. He windmilled his arms and would have fallen, but the man called Harcourt was there to catch him.

  By then, Johnny had turned to try to run up the steps and get inside the building. If he could lock the front door behind him, he might be safe.

  But he couldn’t force his legs to move fast enough. Kicking Bassingham had taken too much out of him. Just as he reached the top step, somebody tackled him from behind. He went down hard, banging his knees against the step and causing more pain to shoot through him.

  He writhed over onto his back, wincing as the sharp edges of the steps cut into him. Harcourt was the one who had tackled him. The man was big and strong and clearly an experienced brawler. Johnny had no chance against him, especially in his current condition. He had to try to fight, though. He threw a couple of ineffectual punches.