“Hang on a minute.” Gibbons was looking through the binoculars at the house. Those two broads in the coolie hats were still hanging out on the corner down there, but now a pair of vehicles was just pulling up in front of the house. A light metallic blue van and behind it a big old black Caddy. A Caddy with fins. Christ, Caddy’s haven’t had fins in—what?—twenty-five, thirty years.
“That’s a sixty. I can tell from here,” Tozzi said, spotting the car. “My old man had one just like it.”
“Spare me the trip down Memory Lane,” Gibbons muttered, still peering through the binoculars.
Four men got out of the van, two out of the Caddy. Damn if these guys didn’t look Japanese. Three of them crossed the lawn and went around back. Three went to the front door and rang the bell. A Japanese woman with real long straight black hair opened the door and motioned frantically, pointing back inside. There was a lot of nodding, then the three who went around back returned dragging this little bleach-head blonde across the lawn.
“That’s D’Urso’s wife,” Tozzi said. “What’s going on?”
“Looks like retaliation to me.” The three Japs who were at the front door suddenly cut through the bank of shrubs and trees that separated the lawn from the curb and surprised the two broads in the coolie hats who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The Japs pinned their arms behind their backs and forced them over to the van where they’d already taken D’Urso’s wife. “What’re they bothering with them for? They’re just out taking a walk.”
“Nobody walks in this neighborhood,” Tozzi said grimly.
Gibbons lifted the binoculars to his eyes again. One of the Japs was pointing vehemently at the two women, and D’Urso’s wife kept shaking her head no. The women were struggling to break free, but it was useless. They fought so hard they knocked the coolie hats off their heads. Gibbons focused on their faces. The redhead looked familiar. But when he got a good look at the brunette, the bottom dropped out of his gut. “Oh, Jesus—”
Tozzi grabbed the binoculars out of his hand and looked. “That’s Roxanne and Lorraine. What the fuck is going on?”
Gibbons wasn’t listening. He strained to see what was going on in the distance, the figures disappearing into the van, thinking about Lorraine in that ridiculous hat silently screaming for help. He was pissed as hell at her, and he was paralyzed by the gruesome thoughts and possibilities that went through his mind so fast the only thing that really registered was the fear and anxiety of a world without Lorraine. He thrust his hand into his jacket, reaching for his gun, but he moved too fast and the pain that screamed through his shoulder instantly brought tears to his eyes. Goddamn! Lorraine needed him, but he was useless! He was a goddamn gimp!
Pinned against the seat by the pain, Gibbons blinked back the tears and saw the Japs getting into the van and pulling away from the curb, hanging a right around that corner and racing off down the hill. The old black Caddy with the fins followed close behind like a guard shark.
Gibbons turned his head toward Tozzi. “Go, goddammit! Hurry up! Go!” He didn’t realize that Tozzi already had it in gear, that his foot was on the accelerator, that the forest-green LTD had left a long pair of skid marks at the curb. He didn’t even feel the pain now. All he could feel was this massive sense of dread about to roll over him, flatten him, ruin everything. That and the shame of realizing that he might not be able to do a damn thing to prevent his worst nightmare from happening.
Oh, Jesus . . . Lorraine. They’ve got Lorraine!
TWENTY-EIGHT
ANTONELLI SAT ON the edge of the limo’s backseat with the door open, pointing that bony finger at D’Urso. The old man’s face was red he was so mad. Even his scalp was red under the thin white hair. “What I want to know is where the hell you get off calling a strike on your own. Tell me, John. I want to know.”
D’Urso shrugged and caught a glimpse of Vincent standing off to the side between the fenders of the limo and the Mercedes. Big Vincent looked nervous. He was the one who picked this end of the lot, but he still looked nervous. He kept looking back through the cyclone fence, at that rotten pier over the water and the abandoned rowboat turned over on its back by the fence.
D’Urso glanced at the razor wire coiled on top of the eight-foot fence. What the fuck did Vincent think? Some hitter’s gonna jump out from under the boat with a machine gun and start shooting through the fence? Fucking dummy. Still, he liked to see Vincent sweat for a change. The big man scanned the long lines of these little shitty Jap cars all around them, glancing nervously at Bobby leaning on the fender of the Mercedes with his arms folded over his chest while trying to keep his eye on the old man the way he was supposed to. Vincent didn’t know where the fuck to look. All he knew was that he’d fucked up and let the old man get into a bad situation. If a hit was on, it could come from anywhere out here. D’Urso was glad to see him worried.
“Are you listening to me, John? I want to know what the hell you were thinking about when you did this. Explain! Are you trying to ruin our relationship with Hamabuchi’s people? Are you?!” The old man’s raspy voice already sounded like a death rattle. The skin around his eyes and over his cheeks was so tight you could make out his skull. The old man was practically dead already.
“Take it easy, Mr. Antonelli,” Vincent cut in. Probably worried that Antonelli was gonna have a heart attack.
The old man pointed two bony fingers at his ape and glared at him. Stay!
D’Urso puckered his lips so the old man wouldn’t see the little grin. This was almost going to be too easy. He kept running it through in his mind, and it always came out pretty much the way he wanted. He scratches his cheek to give Bobby the signal. Bobby pulls that Linda gun and starts plugging the ape. By this time he has his own gun out of the ankle holster and he gets to put a few slugs into Vincent for good measure. Then he turns to the pathetic old man, who wouldn’t have the strength to pull a trigger even if he did carry a piece, and takes him out point-blank in the head. Quick and neat.
“Goddamn it, John, you’re not even paying attention to me! Answer me for chrissake! Why did you call a strike without coming to me first?”
“Well, Mr. Antonelli, to tell you the God’s honest truth, I ordered the strike on my own because I thought it was necessary. But I knew you wouldn’t see it that way so I went ahead and did it on my own.”
The old man was burning up. His lips were sunken, his mouth shut tight like someone’s ole granny. “I don’t fucking believe—”
“No, no, wait,” he interrupted. “I want you to hear me out first. These Japs have been jerking us around almost from the beginning. I been telling you this, but you just let it happen. Hamabuchi thinks he’s the only game in town, but he’s wrong. I’ve found new suppliers, cheaper slaves—”
“Bullshit, you have. I say we deal with Hama—”
“Just listen to me for a minute. I know how to make money with this operation, real money. You buy cheap and move volume. Triple what we’ve been doing. And you bring in more girls. Make the good-looking ones turn tricks—”
“You know damn well what I said about prostitution.”
“Yeah, I know you don’t want it, but you’re wrong. I’ve been running a cathouse down the shore for a couple of months now. It’s been very profitable. Let me tell you.”
John glanced at Vincent as the old man sputtered. The ape looked very nervous. His hands were at his sides, ready to go for the gun under his jacket. It was time. You don’t play games with guys like Vincent. D’Urso casually raised his hand and scratched his cheek.
Bobby rolled his eyes to Vincent, made sure he wasn’t looking, then whipped the autopistol out from under his jacket and started shooting. The close explosion of automatic fire made D’Urso’s ears pop. White-hot muzzle flashes brought his eye to the Linda gun in his brother-in-law’s hand. Vincent had managed to pull his gun, but Bobby fired another burst into his chest then and he fell backward, his arms splayed out like a retard, his gun fl
ying in the air over his head. D’Urso heard Vincent’s gun hitting the cyclone fence, that springy clattering sound, like a wild pitch hitting the batter’s cage.
The old man stared at the dead ape lying on the ground wedged between the two cars. He glanced up at D’Urso and hissed, “Bastard!”
Nagai glanced at Hideo and Toshio. They were silent. Hideo kept his gun on his lap. Nagai looked in the rearview mirror at the van. Ikki was staying close, keeping up. They had the women. Now all they had to do was find D’Urso before he killed Antonelli. Mashiro was there, but Nagai was still concerned. Mashiro’s good, but he can’t stop bullets. He should’ve thought of that last night.
He gunned through a yellow light under the soot-black iron structures of the Pulaski Skyway and headed for the Doremus Avenue exit. The Caddy rumbled over potholes. Nagai heard rattles in the car he’d never heard before. The goddamn road was like a battlefield. He looked in the rearview mirror again. The van was still behind him. At the top edge of his windshield he could see planes flying low on their approach to the airport. They were almost there. Five minutes. Five minutes, D’Urso. Just stay cool for five more minutes. Nagai stepped on the gas and held it to the floor. Fuck the potholes.
The old man was pouting and sputtering in Italian. D’Urso couldn’t understand what the hell he was saying. But who cares anymore what he has to say? Bobby stood there gripping the Linda tight, holding it on Antonelli. He looked very serious. D’Urso leveled his gun on Antonelli’s face and smiled.
“Hey, hey, hey! Shut up and listen to me, Antonelli.”
The old man kept sputtering, sitting there with the car door open, throwing his hands out and gesturing at Vincent like some old greenhorn just off the boat.
“Look, Antonelli, this is the end. As a boss, you lost it. You have to go.”
Antonelli scraped the underside of his chin with the back of his hand and spit on the ground. The old Sicilian curse: May you spit blood. Jesus, this guy was a goddamn fossil.
“Listen to me, Antonelli. I’m gonna make you a deal here. You’re gonna die—that’s not the issue. Whether I make it hurt or not is the issue. Now, you admit to my face that you’re a senile old fart, that you’ve fucked up the family so bad I don’t even know where to begin describing our problems, and that what this family really needs now is someone capable, someone younger, aggressive, profit-motivated. In other words I want to hear you say that I deserve to be the new boss.”
“Go fuck yourself!”
D’Urso cocked his gun. Come on, I want to hear it. “Because if you don’t say it, I’m gonna start with your knees. Then I’m gonna shoot out your elbows. Then I’m gonna give it to you in the throat where it’s gonna hurt like a—”
The roar of approaching engines drowned him out. D’Urso looked over his shoulder to see a blue van speeding toward them. It screeched around in a tight circle so that its tail end was facing them. Right behind the van was the Batmobile, Nagai’s old black Caddy. Fuck!
He looked at Bobby who seemed very confused, almost like he was afraid to take his attention away from the old man. Wake up, asshole. Over the roof of the Mercedes, D’Urso saw the back doors of the van fly open. Three broads were tied back-to-back inside. Three of those slanty-eyed yak hitters were back there, too. They were holding guns on the broads as they kicked and shoved them to make them move to the edge and turn around. Then D’Urso realized why they were turning the broads around. So that he could see the little blonde who’d been facing inside. His fucking wife, that’s who. Jesus Christ Almighty!
The doors of the Caddy opened. Two more hitters took cover behind the doors, more guns, pointed at them now. From the driver’s side, Nagai poked his head over the roof.
“You’re fucked, D’Urso,” he shouted. “Throw your guns over here, you and Bobby.”
“Fuck you, Nagai!”
“Are you blind? We’ve got your wife and her friends.”
Nagai shouted something in Japanese to his men in the van, and they hauled the three women to their feet. D’Urso had no idea who the hell the other two were. Michelle didn’t have any friends. What the hell was Nagai trying to pull here?
“Throw down your guns or we start shooting.”
What does he think this is? Bonanza?
Nagai yelled something else in Japanese and one of the hitters in the van singled out the older broad, the one with the long dark hair. He grabbed her by the hair and stuck his automatic in her ear for everyone to see.
“She goes first,” Nagai shouted. “Then the redhead. Then your wife. Want to see if I’m kidding? Do you?”
D’Urso looked over at Bobby who still looked confused.
“They got Michelle, man.” Bobby looked like he was going to cry. He was too worried about his goddamn sister, the asshole. He wasn’t paying attention.
“John!” Michelle screamed. “Bobby! Listen to him! Please!”
Shut the fuck up. Goddamn it!
“What the hell’s going on here?” D’Urso turned toward the croaking voice. The old man was standing up now, leaning on the limo door.
“Mr. Antonelli,” Nagai yelled. “He brought you here to kill you.”
“Michelle!” Bobby yelled. He sounded like fucking Sylvester Stallone at the end of the first Rocky movie yelling for his girlfriend. Then he started shooting that damn gun off at the yaks.
D’Urso dropped to a crouch and got closer to the Mercedes for protection. “Watch out for your damn sister,” he yelled, but Bobby couldn’t hear him. Then he heard different shots, single shots, returning Bobby’s fire. Yak slugs were zinging into the other side of his car. Fuck this, he said to himself and scrambled to his feet. A Mercedes is not enough protection against these nuts. He ran with his head down and lunged into Antonelli, propelling the two of them into the back of the limo. He quickly shut the door and peered out just in time to see Bobby’s wild fire rattling one of the open doors of the van.
“Hey, Bobby! Watch out for your sister, ya jerk ya!”
The shooting stopped for a second and he could hear Michelle’s high-pitched scream, yelling at her brother to stop it. But then he nearly jumped out of his skin as he felt the old man’s bony hand on his backside, grabbing the flaps of his jacket, trying to pull himself up. He shuddered at the old bastard’s touch and knocked his arm away. Antonelli fell back onto the floor, a weird, wet grunting sound coming out of him now.
The shots seemed to subside then, except for the crazy three-round blasts of Bobby’s autopistol. When D’Urso got back up to the window, he saw why the yaks had stopped shooting. Crouched behind his nut brother-in-law was this guy who looked like a big fucking armadillo in a Darth Vadar helmet holding this evil-looking sword in both hands. Jesus! It was fucking Mashiro!
Michelle screamed. “Bobby, look out!”
But it was already too late. The sword jumped out of Bobby’s stomach. Speared him right through like a goddamn hors d’oeuvre. Bobby’s gun went off once more, shooting out the tire of the Mercedes right beside him. Mashiro propped his foot on Bobby’s ass and yanked the sword out of him. Bobby turned in a corkscrew and landed on his back, a dark circle of blood on his gray shirt, that stupid curl hanging over his staring dead eyes.
“Don’t do it, D’Urso,” Nagai shouted. “I’m telling you.” Nagai was right there now, right on the other side of the Mercedes. “You kill Antonelli, we kill you.” He moved around the back end of the Mercedes, his gun leveled at the rear window of the limo.
D’Urso bit his bottom lip. Who the fuck does this guy think he is, standing there like that? Superman? What does he think, he’s the only one with a gun? Stupid bastard. D’Urso switched the .38 to his left hand, wiped his sweaty palm on his pants, then switched the gun back to his right.
“Don’t be stupid, D’Urso. Come out now. You’ve got nothing to gain.”
D’Urso pulled the lever on the door and paused to make Nagai think he was giving up. “At least I’ve got the guts to kill my boss,” he shouted, kicking the door open
. “More than I can say for you.”
D’Urso squeezed off two quick shots. Nagai lunged back behind the Mercedes as the giant armadillo ran into the line of fire. The idiot just stood there, protecting his boss. How fucking noble. D’Urso bit his lip and fired his last four shots at Mashiro. The fucking idiot just stood there gritting his teeth. Mashiro must’ve taken at least three slugs, his head twitching with each one. He was just standing there, that mean motherfucker expression frozen on his ugly face. It took half a minute before the stupid Jap finally stumbled back and tripped over Bobby’s body.
“John!” Michelle was screaming and crying. She was still tied to the other two broads, at least two yaks that he could see crouched behind them. Then, beyond the van in the distance, D’Urso spotted a dark green sedan racing into the lot. The sedan screeched to a stop, and the driver got out and went to the trunk to get something. He shut the trunk and went around to the passenger side.
“Oh, God! John! Help!”
D’Urso looked over the seatback at the ignition. No keys. Shit. He crawled over the old man who was still stuck on the floor wheezing for breath, and went out the other door. Bullets zinged off the hood of the limo as he ran in a crouch to Vincent’s body, squeezing under the limo’s bumper, so he could search the dead man’s pockets for the keys. He got lucky and found the ape’s key ring right away in his jacket pocket. There was a gold horse-shoe charm on a chain hanging from the ring. Some fucking luck, Vincent.
“John! Oh, God! John!”
He ran back in to the limo, praying those yaks shot as bad as they spoke English, got behind the wheel, and stuck the key in the ignition. As soon as the big engine turned over, he gunned it.
“John! Help us! John! Oh, Jesus!”
The hell with you, Michelle.
He threw it in gear with the engine racing. The transmission balked. The limo threatened to stall, then suddenly it shot off. He steered blind, keeping his head down, veering around the end of a row of Corollas.
Bad Blood Page 24