Do Not Go Gentle

by James W. Jorgensen

  Before Louie could interrupt, Jamie turned to the twins. “Daphné, Darcelle—I need you for field work. Louie can’t do much field work with his knees, and I’m pushing myself into worse shape each time I try to pursue leads.”

  “What makes you think we’d be good at that?” Daphné asked.

  “Or even interested?” Darcelle added.

  “Fair questions. First, I think you’d probably be willing to do it just out of a sense of duty to me, although that’s not what I want. Second, you’re both capable young women—not only are you both skilled martial artists and handy with guns, between the two of you, there isn’t anything electronic or mechanical I can think of that you couldn’t handle.”

  “Got that right,” Darcelle interjected.

  “Quiet,” Daphné scolded. “You’re being impolite to your elder.”

  Jamie narrowed his eyes as he looked at Daphné. “Keep up with the ‘old man’ cracks and I won’t tell you about the reward.”

  “Reward?” Louie and Darcelle asked at once. The pair eyed each other again.

  “Yeah, a reward,” Jamie continued. “The main reason I think all of you will be willing to help me is to get a share of the reward, not just because of my good looks and charm. Cal’s family is unhappy with the lack of progress the department has made on finding his killer. So they’ve put up a fifty thousand dollar reward.”

  Louie whistled softly. “That’s a lotta dough.”

  “You can say that again,” Darcelle agreed.

  “Why isn’t the department making any progress?” Daphné asked.

  “Because they’ve got Len Hamilton heading the case,” Jamie replied.

  “That clown?” Louie laughed. “He couldn’t catch cold in a snowstorm.”

  Jamie smiled. “I couldn’t have said it better. Plus, even a good cop wouldn’t necessarily be willing to follow some of the leads to the Disciples.”

  “Why’s that?” Louie asked.

  “Because there’s no real evidence, not to mention the supernatural aspects of the case. Believe it or not, most cops are pretty pragmatic and hard-headed. They don’t buy into the ‘hocus-pocus’ crap. Finally, Sedecla’s got a barracuda lawyer who told Hamilton and Sully that if the force kept harassing his client, he would slap them with a big lawsuit.”

  “It is pretty thin,” Darcelle noted.

  “Agreed. That’s why I need all of you.” Jamie paused and took a long drink of his Guinness. “I’ve been trying my best, but as Eileen and the girls have repeatedly and pointedly informed me, all I’m doing is making my condition worse. I need to get some help, and I think the three of you fit the bill perfectly.”

  “Naturally, it’s the womenfolk who know best,” Daphné observed archly.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Jamie said. “Save it for your next hen party. So, what do you say, gang? Split four ways, that reward means $12,500 for each of us.”

  “Four ways?” Louie objected. “These two are a package deal,” he said, pointing at the twins, “and I thought you said you can’t work. It oughta be split two ways, me and them.”

  “Nice try, Alvise,” Jamie said, holding his hands to cut off the indignant responses being prepared by Daphné and Darcelle. “I didn’t say I couldn’t work—I said I couldn’t work it alone. I’m going to be involved in this case as much as my health permits, and these two young ladies are not a single entity, no matter how much they may look and sound alike. The deal is equal shares all around.” Jamie held the big man’s gaze for several seconds, and the twins held back on their verbal barrage.

  Finally, after taking a slow, calculated drink of his stout, Louie nodded. “Alright, Mick, you got a deal. You’ve always been a sharp customer.”

  “So are we,” Darcelle added.

  They glowered at each other for a second before laughing and shaking hands. “Deal.” He shook Daphné’s hand, engulfing it, but not crushing it, and then reached across to shake Jamie’s hand. “So where do we start?”

  “Glad you asked that,” Jamie said cheerfully. “Here’s what I want you to do—”

  Chapter Twenty

  “How long do you propose we stay on this stakeout?” Darcelle complained, taking another drink of her third black coffee in the past two hours.

  “Until we see something worthwhile,” replied Daphné crossly. “Quit your bitching. You knew this would be a long, boring night.”

  “Easy for you to say,” came the equally cross reply. “You’ve got your computer toy to play with.” Daphné was sitting beside Darcelle in their car, a nondescript, but deceptive 2010 Hyundai Genesis Coupe. It was nondescript because it was metallic gray in color with black leather interior. It was also the least sporty version of the car, so it did not stand out, day or at night. It was deceptive because while it looked like an average coupe, it was anything but average. Daphné had accused her sister of going overboard on the vehicle until Darcelle pointed out that Daphné’s MacBook Air was overkill at nearly $2,500 for the top-of-the-line version that included mobile Wi-Fi.

  “I’m not playing,” Daphné replied in a heated whisper. “So far I’ve managed to dig up a crapload of interesting information about our gal, Sedecla, the various companies and groups she owns or controls, her financial records, and her ties to criminal activity.”

  “So what good does that do us?” Darcelle countered. “We already know she’s a scumbag. Uncle Jamie needs us to find evidence linking her to Cal’s murder.”

  “What do you think we’re doing?” Daphné demanded.

  “Sitting on and freezing off our butts, watching no one do anything.”

  “Okay, what’s your great idea? Drive around the block ten times real fast?”

  “I don’t have one,” Darcelle said sulkily. “I just know that this sucks.”

  Daphné shook her head. “Listen, I’ll make you a deal—if we don’t see any action by midnight, we’ll pack it in for today.”

  Darcelle groaned. “Midnight? That’s over an hour away.”

  “You sound like you’re five years old.”

  “Do not.”

  “Do too,” Daphné replied, and then continued over the top of her sister’s imminent response. “We’re not playing that game either. I told you to bring a book or something to do. Contrary to movies and TV, stakeouts are not glamorous.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “So, how do you expect to do something like this all the time? You’d drive me freakin’ nuts.” Even before Jamie’s request for them to do field work on the case, Daphné and Darcelle had been talking about doing something different. They both enjoyed their freelance work, but they wanted something more. The problem was, they didn’t know more what. Neither of them was involved in a serious relationship. The combination of their intellect and skills, both mentally with computers and mechanical systems and physically with martial arts and firearms, tended to place them in no-woman’s land. The nerds, geeks, teachers, or white-collar workers they dated had little or no interest or tolerance for martial arts, target practice, or automotives. Similarly, they had yet to run into any jocks, gear heads, or gun enthusiasts who liked building their own computers, studying electrical engineering, or reading vociferously. Their mother was convinced that they would wind up old maids together, living in a small house with fifteen cats.

  The main source of their dissatisfaction was that while they both made good money as consultants, there was no real excitement, no new challenges presented to them in the course of their work. They had toyed with the idea of starting their own business. In fact, Daphné and Darcelle had worked together on a project that involved integrating a building’s electronic and physical systems for a company. Despite their bickering, they had enjoyed working together, but somehow, it wasn’t enough.

  Thus they found themselves, ten days before Christmas, sitting in their car with no heat—Darcelle refused to let the car sit and idle for more than a few minutes at a time, claiming it was hard on the engine—and wondering what to do next. It was
the third night in a row that they staked out Sedecla’s townhouse with nothing to show for it except frostbite and fatigue. As it neared midnight with yet again no activity, Daphné was getting ready to tell her sister to pack it in, when they saw Sedecla’s garage door open. Darcelle nearly spilled her coffee onto Daphné’s laptop. “Hey. Watch it, clumsy,” Daphné scolded.

  “Watch it yourself, stupid.” Darcelle replied.

  As they secured their coffee and computer, the twins saw a black sedan come exit the garage and head down Hull Street.

  “Nice car,” Daphné said.

  “Duh. It’s only a Mercedes CLS63 AMG. It’s got twice the horsepower we do, with a bitchin’ biturbo V-8 and a six figure price tag.”

  Daphné gave her sister a withering look as Darcelle started the car and slowly followed the Mercedes. “Like I said, in English—nice car. Don’t get too close,” Daphné warned as they turned onto Salem Street.

  “Are you freakin’ kidding me?” Darcelle demanded. “You can barely drive and you’re trying to tell me how to tail a car?”

  “I’m just saying.”

  The Mercedes turned the 93 tunnel. Darcelle backed off on the 93—there was more traffic, but not so much that she couldn’t see the Mercedes, and with the limited number of exits, she wouldn’t risk losing him. As they passed the Columbia Road exit for the JFK Library and UMass campus, the twins looked at each other.

  “This dude’s heading to our turf,” Darcelle exclaimed.

  “Yeah. I don’t like this,” Daphné agreed.

  Darcelle closed the gap slightly, still keeping at least one car between them and the Mercedes. A short while later, they followed the Mercedes off the 93 at Gallivan Boulevard and headed back northeast. Darcelle abruptly slowed down.

  “What are you doing?” Daphné demanded. “You’re going to lose him.”

  “No, I’m not,” Darcelle retorted. “The pôrcu is going to take the turnaround just past the 93 and head back toward Cedar Grove. If I’m right behind him when he does, he’ll know he’s being followed.”

  “If you’re too far back, we’ll still lose him.”

  “No, we won’t. Where the hell do you think he’s heading, sis?”

  Daphné paused, and then narrowed her eyes. “He’s not.”

  “He is.” Darcelle insisted, “but I’m betting he doesn’t know the street directions down here. We do.” She kept her distance until they reached Hallet Street, where she turned left. “Hold on.” Darcelle punched the accelerator of the Genesis to the floor.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” said Daphné. “Now you’re not only going to lose him, you’re going to get us killed.”

  “Would you lighten up?” Darcelle was smiling as she rocketed down Hallet to where it curved into Hill Top. “I haven’t killed us yet.”

  “Yet.”

  When they reached Rockne Avenue, Darcelle took the right turn as fast as possible, fishtailing slightly, forcing her twin to grasp the top of the door above her head. “No Jesus handles. No Jesus handles. Why don’t we have any freakin’ Jesus handles?”

  “Shut up, you wuss.” Darcelle scolded, pushing the Hyundai back up to full speed as they raced up Rockne, slowing imperceptibly as they crossed Milton Street. Then Darcelle cut the speed and coasted into a spot beneath some trees across from the Griffin house. She killed the lights, and then pushed her sister. “Get down as low as you can and be quiet.”

  “You’d better be right,” Daphné hissed.

  “I am. He’s going to come up behind us any second. He’ll be behind us since he drove slower and had to loop around to get onto this street.”

  “Well, I’m sure he drove slower.”

  A few moments later, they could see car lights playing above their heads. The lights approached them, and then cut out. They heard the car pass them by and coast up the street several houses past Griffins. Darcelle risked a peek once the other car’s lights extinguished. “It’s the Mercedes,” she whispered.

  “Lucky for you,” Daphné growled.

  “C’mon, stupid,” Darcelle said, punching her sister in the arm. “Where else was he going to go in this part of Dorchester?”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Neither do I—we’ll sit up slowly and only as far as we have to in order to see out.”

  The twins did so and saw a large silhouette emerging silently from the Mercedes. “That’s one big damn man,” Darcelle swore.

  “You can’t make that out from here.”

  “Yes I can, and he’s carrying something.”

  As the full moon illuminated the figure, Daphné could see that her sister was right—a very large man walked toward the Griffin house, carrying something. “Oh, this is bad.”

  “You got that right.”

  After a couple of heartbeats, Daphné asked, “What do we do now?”

  Darcelle gave her sister a grim look. “We wait. If we hear a ruckus, we run in with our guns out and do whatever needs to be done. If not, we wait until Big Boy leaves, then we go find out what he was up to.”

  “Shouldn’t we go now?” Daphné asked, concerned for Jamie and his family.

  “No,” Darcelle insisted. “He’d hear us—you know he’s on high alert. If we don’t see him come back in the next two minutes, we’ll risk it, but I think I know what he’s up to.”

  “What?”

  “No good. Now pipe down.” The sisters then began waiting through the longest, most excruciating two minutes of their lives.

  * * * *

  Louie looked out the window of his townhome. It was a clear, cold night, and he loved sitting in the recliner positioned in front of one of his windows overlooking Hanover Street. Willy and Nilly were also in their favorite spot—a “play gym” made out of wood, with brightly colored toys spread out over three levels, so they could watch out the window beside him. Family and friends called Willy and Nilly his children, and Louie did not disagree—he spent a great deal of time and money on them.

  The opposite wall featured a 50” plasma TV embedded within a massive entertainment center that consumed the entire wall. A home theater system with Blu-ray completed the setup. Louie did not have a lot of money, but given the restrictions on his activity, he had invested a great deal in making his townhouse a place where he could be as comfortable as possible.

  “That’s what I said already, idiota,” Louie growled, his gravelly voice sounding like an ancient cement mixer. “Do I gotta spell everything out for you?” Louie held the phone in his left hand and ran his huge right hand over his face in frustration. “Dannato cretino. This woman, she’s hard to find. She ain’t listed in the del cazzo Yellow Pages.”

  He had already spent an hour talking to various sources, trying to find any information about Sedecla or her operations. While he could find out little about the woman or her cult, Louie had been successful in obtaining information about the Mazzimah, and he could positively link her to the group. It was nothing that could be used as evidence in a court of law, but Louie knew that Jamie was interested in information, not evidence.

  “You’re as useless as a one legged man at an ass-kicking contest.” Louie listened to a string of abuse from the other end of the line, and then snarled, “Vaffanculo,” and clicked off the connection, slamming the handset back into the station.

  Louie got up slowly from his recliner, refreshed the food and water cups for the parakeets, and then hobbled to the kitchen to make himself some dinner. During his rehabilitation, Louie had been forced to participate in several adult learning classes, one of which was a cooking class. Louie had never learned how to cook since the kitchen was his mother’s undisputed domain as a child, and as an adult, he usually ate out. He had been hesitant at first, but by the time he completed the introductory course, Louie had asked to take additional cooking classes. He was no gourmet chef, but Louie made some mean pasta dishes. His other adult living classes had included basic life skills that Louie lacked—how to do laundry, balancing your bank account, and housekeepi
ng. He did not need to work beyond the limited duties required by the family, so Louie did not participate in any further vocational programs.

  He just finished his meal of cucatini all’amatriciana, a Roman pasta dish made with guanciale and bucatini pasta. Louie was finishing his glass of Casa Castillo Monastrell red wine when the telephone rang. “Accipicchia.” Louie swore, lunging out of his chair to snatch the handset on the kitchen counter, and then plopping back down onto his chair.

  “Pronto.”

  “Louie. My man. How you doing these days?” came a high-pitched voice.

  Louie tried to place the voice, but failed. “Who the hell is this?” he demanded.

  “Louie. I’m hurt. Seriously man, I’m hurt.”

  “Yeah, you’re gonna be seriously hurt if you don’t start talking.”

  “It’s Peeper, Louie. You remember me, don’tcha?”

  Louie rolled his eyes. “Yeah, unfortunately, I do remember you, ya little punk. It’s about time you got back to me—I been leavin’ you messages all over town.”

  “Well, jeez, Louie, I’m a busy man, you know.”

  “Oh yeah, busy man? Well, I need answers to some questions, so you’d better make some time for me.”

  “Sure, Louie, sure. Like what?”

  “Like what you told Cal Cushing right before he got whacked.”

  Silence hung in the air like a dark cloud for several seconds. “How’d you know about that?” Peeper asked in a subdued voice.

  “How do you think I know it, numb-nuts?” Louie growled. “I still work for the family—I’m only semi-retired. Now talk.”

  “I dunno, Louie,” Peeper replied nervously. “Cushing got killed over it, and from what I heard, it wasn’t pretty.”

  “Just like you’re going to end up if you don’t stop fucking around with me, little man.”

  “Okay. I’m assuming the usual compensation for this information, right?”

  “You mean, you get to keep on the right side of the grass, testa di cazzo?” Louie rumbled. “You get to stay in one piece, dickhead?”