Bill leaned casually against a pillar at the edge of the shoe department. He stepped away to pick up a shoe, study it, and set it down. He browsed women’s coats, never taking his eye off the chic mannequin in the Calvin Klein jacket, then stepping back behind the pillar again as if waiting for someone.
After an hour, he saw Eddie come up the escalator, look around, and walk right to the mannequin where he inspected the garment, then walked to the nearby display table where he peered at the jackets’ tags.
After Eddie paid, he headed for the steps. Bill followed a half flight behind. He watched Eddie exit the Market Street door and hail a cab. It headed west toward Broad. Bill whistled and waved for a cab of his own.
“Don’t lose that cab ahead! Go through lights if you have to! Twenty bucks extra if you don’t lose him,” he said, perched on the edge of the back seat of a Quaker City cab. It was 8:30 on a Tuesday night, downtown was deserted except for fully lit empty and lonely looking buses, dark taxicabs, and street people hunched in shadowed doorways. Eddie’s cab stayed in sight. After going around Philadelphia’s ornate City Hall, they headed south on Broad.
Eddie’s cab pulled to the curb at Snyder. Ten car-lengths behind, Bill told his driver to pull over and turn off his lights. Eddie emerged from his cab with the Strawbridge bag in hand. Bill leaned forward from the back seat and watched him walk up steps into a four-story apartment building. Seconds after Eddie disappeared, Bill said, “Wait here,” and got out.
He walked to the building and scanned the directory: six apartments. None of the names provided a clue as to which apartment held Louise. The place wasn’t far from the Spaciad Club. Luca’s South Philly network of gabby relatives had failed to find Eddie hiding under their noses, and Bill didn’t intend to clue him in.
He walked back to the cab, gave the Day Street address, and rested his head back to gaze out at the empty streets as the cab made a U-turn toward Girard. His life was an open wound and his mind a train wreck. Bill wanted Louise’s love but she may be gone, somehow ruined or no longer able to see the better parts of him. The parts that loved his brother and went to seminary and tried to protect Mikey Osborne and loved her and had the strength to exterminate vermin like Eddie Matthews and sanitize the world. Their world. Couldn’t she have seen the goodness of that? Couldn’t she have seen the putrid stain Eddie left on everyone and everything he touched or came near? He thought of the tattoo—now Louise herself was stained.
Bill could now only hope for a partial victory. Even with Eddie dead, Louise may forever have slipped from his grasp. But vengeance was something held close and would again make him whole.
As they turned right onto Girard, he was thinking drink. Another voice in his head said don’t.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Willie the limo driver sat in the interrogation room looking at the menacing Philadelphia Flyer, Dave Schultz, glaring down from his faded poster.
“Detective, sir, I’ve been a straight arrow since before I got out of prison, but now you’re scaring me,” Willie said.
“Here’s what you need to know,” Lanza said. “The outfit you’re working for is primed to go up in flames. Your boss is about to be barbequed. Now, I know you made trips to Harrisburg to deliver packages of cash for him. Who did you deliver it to?”
“I made a number of deliveries to Harrisburg. I don’t know if it was cash or what.”
“Witnesses say it was cash. You saying Bigelow sent you to Harrisburg to have his laundry done?”
Willie shook his head. He looked back up at the poster and picked at a fingernail, then rubbed both hands down his thighs to his knees. His teeth were clamped shut, as if to prevent a torrent of words from seeking escape.
“Who sent you with the money, Bigelow or Luca Cunnio?”
“I keep sayin’ I don’t know about any money, but sometimes Mr. Bigelow, and other times it was Luca. Alls they did was give me packages and told me where to take them.”
“Was it to the same person each time?”
“It was a woman.”
“And where did you connect with her?”
“A breakfast place on Main Street. I forget its name.”
“What was her name?”
“Ginger. A redhead. Nice looking. Well-dressed.”
“You mean furs and jewels?”
“No, like a professional or an administrative assistant to some big-shot. Like the kind who work for Mr. Bigelow.”
“Did you talk?”
“Only to say hi. I would sit at the counter. She’d come in and I’d give her the package. We never even shared a cup of coffee.”
Lanza sat back, never unlocking eyes from Willie’s until Willie averted his gaze. Sam had it all figured out. Willie was transporting bribe money on behalf of ServMark and Luca was in on it. But where did the priest fit in? And another question: what about Jericho?
“How old was this Ginger?” he asked.
“Not old. Mid to late thirties.”
“And she was a dish?”
“Yeah, I guess when you’re important you get pick of the litter.”
Sam smelled blood in the water. Jesus, he loved that feeling—more than a marbled prime rib, more than the smell of a new car.
“I can get you on a dozen counts, you know that, right?”
“For what?”
“Conspiracy to commit extortion, corruption of public officials…give me time, I’ll come up with more.”
“You can’t do that! I have a family now! I work!”
“Yeah, Willie, you’re problem is what you work at.”
“I just follow orders. You can’t pin stuff on me.”
“I can and will pin it on you, like a donkey’s tail at a third-grade birthday party, depending on whose orders you choose to follow.”
“Which means…
“Bigelow’s, Cunnio’s, or mine. I want you to record what goes on in your limo.”
“What good will a wire do without a warrant?”
“It will tell me what I need to know. And don’t go telling me about the fucking law. See this,” he said, pointing to the badge dangling from a cord around his neck, “I’m the fucking law around here, and from now on, I’m sheriff in the miserable town that’s your life.”
“Lanza, if I get caught with a wire I’m toast. You know that.”
Lanza reached into his jacket slung on the back of the chair. “Just slip this in your pocket. It works good. Doesn’t make any noise.” He handed Willie a Sony cassette tape recorder.
Lanza picked up his phone on the first ring. It was his boss.
“Looks like your pudgy pal Angie Graziani caught it. He’s full of bullet holes. Get this, he’s still standing up in a phone booth at Sixth and Bainbridge. I want you to take this one.”
Fuck! Sam grabbed his coat. As soon as he got the call he assumed that Angie’s buddy Paulie was probably also on the run or dead—buried somewhere or hiding under a serape in a Costa Rica mountain village.
Luca’s crew had obviously become hazardous to his own health, and a nine-millimeter emetic the only cure for ratting to cops. Maybe someone saw them go into the Roundhouse, or had a loose lip, or failed to keep the boss posted about current events. Who knew what shit set these guys off? On top of everything, Sam guessed, they had likely risen to their level of incompetence.
Now the dead twink’s file could be closed without payment. More significantly, Sam was back to square one about the priest’s role in the ServMark mess. But there was still Willie.
When Sam got to the scene, neighbors lined the cordoned scene and the uniforms taking names of possible witnesses. Angie’s body was still upright in the phone booth, but semi-collapsed, like a vertical half-squeezed concertina, phone still in hand. Sam put on his latex gloves and counted bullet holes: seven. The uniforms had located nine casings, so two rounds must be in a tree or building behind the phone booth. Somebody wanted Angie real dead. Naturally, nobody saw anything—Spaciad was just around the corner.
&n
bsp; Sam’s boss represented the Homicide unit on the Organized Crime Task Force, and Sam hadn’t yet filed his report on his Angie interview of a few days prior to the goombah’s final phone call. The unfortunate timing of the wise guy’s demise would fuck up the lieutenant with the press, as well as his rep within the task force. How would it look when days before Angie was killed, Homicide had interviewed him but the brass knew nothing about it? Lanza expected an ass chewing, but once he busted the whole ServMark bribery thing, he’d be forgiven, maybe promoted—at least given a raise.
After the pictures were taken, Angie was laid on the sidewalk. Sam inserted a digit into Angie’s seven bullet holes and rolled him over to check for through-and-throughs. He thought, Thanks, Ange—you piece of shit.
The downside was that a murdered Angie meant the leash on Lanza’s freedom would shorten. He would be forced to share his detective work with the task force. But no way would he give away the fruits of his imagination and labor. They’d take all the fucking credit. Let them bring Luca in themselves. Let them steer themselves down more blind alleys, chase petty scams and debate among themselves. Sam Lanza got better results when he did things his way.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
In one hundred-dollar bills, a million dollars fits into a microwave oven. In a valise, it fits easily in an airplane’s overhead compartment. When Luca had called and said he had the money, Bill had to ask the denominations so that he knew what he was dealing with.
His breathing grew shallow as he waited for Eddie’s call. It could be tonight. He struggled not to cloud his brain and reflexes with booze. He fetched his missal from the end table drawer and tried to find an appropriate passage—except its editors had been holy men and never contemplated the spirituality of extortion payments to killers, or aid in summoning the courage to rescue a woman who may not want to be saved, or the right reason to kill a man. He closed the book and paced.
He looked at his watch and double-checked that his wallet and keys were in his pockets. He retrieved the handcuffs and put them in his jacket. He practiced taping the Jagdkommando knife to his wrist. Its tip would need a wad of Saran Wrap to avoid puncturing his own skin. An extremely rude-looking instrument of grief—it had a twisted, triple-edged blade with a point sharper than a hypodermic. After inserting hollow-points into his Smith and Wesson .357 magnum revolver, he checked that its heft wasn’t too much for his waistband, made looser from his dropping weight. He resumed pacing and thought about Louise.
He had no idea what to expect. What would he even say to her: welcome home, I kept the house real nice? She might embrace him and thank him for her rescue, or she might spit in his face. He expelled a long exhale and asked the Lord for help—that he be able to wrest her from her attachment to Deadly Eddie, that he be able to let her go if she no longer loved him, that she be able to reclaim her life and find happiness. But in his own mind, it was moot that his prayers were heard.
Then there was Eddie, capable of anything, and Luca, who’d probably waste them all if he could get away with the money. Bill could trust no one, and as with prison life, he needed a spider’s array of eyes to come out of this alive. And how alive could he really be until he got Eddie? Eddie’s hands were quick. He had shanked Mikey Osborne’s neck a half-dozen times before Mikey knew what hit him.
Eddie had said he would arrive strapped at the rendezvous. Bill needed to get around that problem too. When should he make his move, when Eddie was inspecting the money? As he handed the documents over? And where would Luca be during the transaction? How would he react? Where would he even be standing?
As he envisioned Eddie’s corpse lying on the deserted train platform, Bill’s nerves quieted, his thoughts cleared, and time began to move in slow motion. He felt the revolver press against his skin as he sat in a stuffed chair, steepled his fingers, and dared the phone to ring. Yes, he knew, nothing was certain, but at least the end was near.
His vision was still on that platform staring down at a bleeding Eddie when the phone rang. He wasn’t startled at the insistent ring piercing his reverie; he let it ring. It stopped ringing, then started again, then stopped and started again. Bill looked at it. He knew it was Eddie. He was finally ready to pick up.
“Yes,” he said.
“Where you been? I thought you was waiting for my call?”
“The money is in. You know the plan. We’ll meet tomorrow at five at the post office in Suburban Station. Be there with Louise. She better be wearing that jacket.” He hung up.
The phone rang again. Then again. Bill let it ring. Finally, it stopped.
By 4:00 p.m. on the following day, Suburban Station was an anthill of scurrying workers crisscrossing the concourse to platforms and trains out of the city. From a news stand, Bill’s face was buried in a Daily News, eyes squinting, peering over the banner headline as he watched Luca sitting cross-legged near the Amtrak ticket office, sipping a cappuccino at Orlando’s Imported Delicacies. Two of his men sat at a table next to the crime boss, one of them occasionally tapping him on the shoulder to point out some blond or brunette with jiggling breasts and three-inch heels clicking toward platform stairs for trains to the burbs. The duffle bag at Luca’s feet must contain the money. But why the escort?
The hustle and bustle of the commuter train station was still building. Bill’s rendezvous at the post office with Eddie and Louise wasn’t until five. He agreed to meet Luca at four-thirty for the pick-up.
He gathered up an Economist and leafed though. Now what? Did Luca bring the entourage in order to confront Eddie? Bill couldn’t let himself be cut out. He wanted to get Louise to safety and get Eddie dead, and Luca would get in the way. Bill wondered if Luca’s men would disperse before the appointed time to pick up the duffle bag.
When he turned to face Luca’s table again, the two men were gone. Maybe they were only there as guards while Luca and Bill did their Brinks thing. Or maybe they left to watch the post office, waiting for him to rendezvous with Eddie, then whack him and Eddie and maybe Louise and take the money and Eddie’s proofs.
Beads of sweat gathered at Bill’s hairline as it dawned on him what a bad choice the post office location had been. An escalator to Fifteenth Street, steps leading up to Two Penn Center and JFK Boulevard, steps up to City Hall, and a platform to the Market-Frankford el. A hallway to Sixteenth Street and another toward Eighteenth Street. All within a hundred feet of the post office. It had more escape routes than a termite mound. If Luca’s men intended to whack them and snatch the money and documents, Bill couldn’t have picked a more vulnerable spot. He revisited his plan.
At four-thirty he meandered over to Luca and took a chair next to him at the table.
“Ready?” Luca said.
“Yeah. Is that the package?”
“Yeah,” Luca said, taking a sip of cappuccino. “Don’t let anything happen we didn’t talk about.”
“You can keep your eye on me,” Bill said.
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Where will you be?”
“I’ll find you,” Luca said. He said nothing about the other men. “Take the bag. Don’t let anything happen to this money. If it does, you and your girlfriend will find yourselves in a cement mixer.”
Bill took the bag and headed toward the post office. He scoped out everyone he passed and scanned the pillars and corners for the shadowy thugs who an hour before ogled young mothers and wives hurrying home to family. The only family those guys cared about was leg-breakers and murderers. He didn’t see them, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t see him.
He stood outside the door leading to the post office boxes. From a distance he saw Eddie and Louise walking down the long passageway toward him. Louise was wearing the Calvin Klein jacket which Bill had selected for its sleeve length. She was holding Eddie’s hand. It took Bill’s breath away just to see her. She had lost more weight. She was once a graceful tern, now a scruffy sparrow with a badly wounded wing.
He looked around for Luca and his
men among the scurrying commuters, but didn’t see anyone.
“Got the papers?” he said to Eddie as they approached.
“Yeah. Got my package?”
“Yeah,” Bill said, pointing to the duffle bag. “But something’s up, we have a slight change of plan…”
Eddie’s look darkened. He jerked Louise close to him and looked around.
“Don’t give me no changes,” he said, “or I’ll—”
“Relax. It’s only logistics. I’m going to keep the duffle bag and go out to the street. I’ll come back into the concourse at Eighteenth and meet you there.”
“Why the rigmarole?” Eddie said, apparently relieved it was the only change of the plan.
“Just being careful in case we’re being followed. I want to keep you and the money separated until we actually make the exchange. The important thing is we meet up right away again.”
“Well don’t try a fast one,” Eddie said, “or I’ll take her back home and start yanking out her teeth.” He pulled his shirt tight to show the outline of a pistol in his waistband.
Bill looked into Louise’s eyes. “You look great in that jacket,” he said. She averted his gaze.
“Let’s get this done with,” Eddie said, and yanked her back down the passageway toward their destination.
Bill emerged into the sunlight and the busy sidewalk of Fifteenth. He walked toward Seventeenth and froze when he saw one of Luca’s men near the steps to the concourse entrance. The gangster was looking at his watch and appeared nonchalant but poised to be within a minute of the rendezvous with Eddie and Louise.
Bill crossed JFK and continued to Eighteenth. Sure enough, the other thug stood outside the steps to the concourse. But where was Luca?
I Detest All My Sins Page 20