“We take the girl to the house, and then wees can clip ’em both and still get to Giuseppe Geddone’s by eight-fifteen and back to meet up with Solly by nine.”
“Naw, naw, why waste a bullet on the girl?” Michael said, slipping into his heaviest street accent.
“But, Mikey, she knows who we are. She knows the plan.”
“She don’t know nothin’. Look at her. Looky there. She ain’t gonna talk to nobody. She don’t even come from this city. Lissena this,” Michael said, and broke huddle.
“Aay, honey. Where you from?”
“Michigan.”
Back to the huddle. “There, you see, she’s from Michigan.”
“Where?”
“It’s one of them cold places up near the Canadian border.”
“She’s foreign?”
“No, no. Our side of the border. Lissen, Tony, she’s not gonna say nothin’. Look at the way she’s shaking. We leave her here, what’s she gonna do?”
“She goes to the cops.”
It was time to bring out the ammo.
“Tony,” he began, lowering his voice, “remember the hit at Freddo’s restaurant on the Upper East Side?”
“Yeah.”
“You did the guy on a Wednesday night, in fronta one hundred people. Did anybody say anything to the cops?”
“Naw…”
“Not even the guys saw you walk into the kitchen and back out, right? Not even an entire dining room of customers? Not even the guys who left the back door open for you in the kitchen, right?”
Michael waited for, and finally got, the reaction he’d wanted from Tony. Tony’s eyes got unfocused and began to cross slightly, and he squinted, wrinkling up his mouth and nose in pain.
Tony was thinking.
“Nobody said nothing,” he said after a minute.
“And why not?”
“They was scared.”
“That’s right. You made ’em so scared, they didn’t talk. Look at the way she’s shaking.”
Tony’s eyes slid over to the girl, then back to Michael.
“Yeah, but she’s from outta town—”
“So she’s double-scared. We do a number on Michigan over there—you know, tie her up loose, shake her around, tell her she’s dead, and I guarantee she ain’t gonna do nothing. And, it’s less of a trace if we don’t leave bodies laying all over New York tonight. We don’t want the boss hit where it looks planned, right? We just want him to disappear after we get Rosa’s stuff straightened out.”
“Yeah?” Tony said, unfurling his face. There was a glint in his eyes as he stared at Mike. “Solly said you was to call the shots tonight.… So this is the way you wanna go with it?”
“Aayyy.”
It took them ten minutes to tie up Michigan, most of it spent finding something to tie her up with. They bound her with a roll of masking tape to the swivel chair in the office and stuffed a wad of cheap paper towels into her mouth.
Tony Mac waved his gun around at her, told her she’d be shot and her thumbs would be cut off and sent to her family as a warning to other presumptuous out-of-towners.
Michael discreetly cut a slit in the masking tape over her hands as Tony did his number.
He didn’t want Michigan stuck here all weekend.
It wasn’t her fault she’d gotten mixed up in this. She should’ve gone to her barbecue in Connecticut. But no, she’d come to offer Rosa what she could spare—a lousy five hundred dollars. Jeez, they must work for slave wages in magazines, Michael thought as he wiped down the desk and the door.
She was a good woman. She had nice eyes, he thought as Tony walked out of the room. He liked her face, too. She was pretty. Nordic-looking, though. She had a nice figure and …
He snapped back together as he looked down at her frightened eyes. Yeah, she was a good-looking woman, all right. She’d look real good on the stand in court, fingering him for all this. ’Cause Michael knew, when it came right down to it, if she talked, she would not look upon him as the one who got her off the hook.
“C’mon, Mikey!” Tony’s voice boomed from the hall.
He leaned down, and she pulled away, as if he was going to hit her.
“Count to one hundred slowly, then pull your hands free and get out of here. Don’t ever tell anyone about this, ’cause if you do, we’ll tell them you hired us. Don’t forget, you gave us his book and your fingerprints are all over it,” he whispered. Then he stood up and walked to the door.
He turned and gave one last look, just to make sure it had sunk in. She nodded to him, and he closed the door.
He walked over to the elevator banks, where Tony was holding the door. They rode down in silence.
He’d won this round. He’d convinced Tony to spare Michigan. His eyes slid over to him and he saw Tony watch the floor numbers light up as the elevator descended.
If he could save Michigan, what about her boss?
That would take more careful planning, and it would be one less murder he’d be in on.…
His stomach suddenly went cold.
Giuseppe Geddone. He couldn’t get out of that. But how could he do it? He wasn’t a killer. Not only wasn’t he a killer but to get payment for it—that’s what Solly had thrown in, more for Tony than for him. If Tony was in on it and he didn’t get his usual “bonus,” he’d get all confused, and Solly didn’t want that.
Michael didn’t want that.
Tony was more likely to go off half-cocked when he was confused.
Jesus Christ! Why had Giuseppe done this? Michael couldn’t imagine he’d been skimming so much. Knowing Solly, it probably wouldn’t even buy him a suit each month, but it was “the principle of the thing.”
Still, Geddone should’ve known better.
Michael caught himself wincing. Two years with these guys and he was already beginning to think like them. They were talking about a human life here. This was something that seemed to elude these people. He needed a plan.
They walked silently through the lobby. The guard was off somewhere.
They walked out to the car and got in.
“We’re going to SoHo,” he said, and Tony grunted as he started the car.
“How you wanna do this?”
“It’s up to you.”
“Look, you gotta call it. You wanna get him in his apartment or on the street?”
* * *
It was ten past eight. Henry walked into his closet and sorted through a rack of clothes he’d never worn. He selected a Bijan outfit, with a matching shirt that had never even been out of the bag it came in.
Once he had realized that if he continually bought new clothes, he would never have to do laundry, life became a pleasure. God! Expense accounts were great!
He stood, adjusting his tie and combing his hair, which dramatically fell into the same place every time. He should get it trimmed, but just a tiny bit. He liked the overgrown look. It read, Henry felt, like a man who was too dedicated and busy to get a haircut. Of course, he had to pay his stylist one hundred bucks a visit to maintain this degree of sloppiness, but he looked so devoted on Page Six.
He rummaged through a box with eyeglasses in it. This was another affectation of which he was fond: the hardworking head of a magazine so staunch, his eyes were going on him. It added to the aura.
He chose a large pair with Calvin Klein frames. He couldn’t remember who’d taught him the trick about plain glass in the frames. A lot of his memory seemed faulty these days. Even though he suspected it was his night-prowling schedule—a schedule he’d perfected at twenty-one and not changed even though he’d aged a decade—he preferred to think it was because he worked for a living.
He left his hair loose—it wouldn’t do to have another picture of him with it pulled back, in case he ran into the press again—and stared at his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the closet. This would be fine. And he could really let loose because, after all, this was Friday night.
* * *
Forty-f
ive.
Forty-six.
Lisa squirmed and tried to concentrate on the count. The paper in her mouth was making her gag and the tape on her wrists was slightly pulling some hair on her arm, so it felt as if she was removing a Band-Aid horribly slowly. Her shoulders were all hunched up and pulled back by the chair. It was frighteningly uncomfortable.
Forty-seven.
Forty-eight. She continued counting in her head as she coughed on the towels.
* * *
“Okay, so we wait for him to come outta the building and we grab him, and, if we need to, we take him back to that office to do the paperwork, right?” Tony asked.
Michael nodded and they both looked up at the third-floor window of a large loft on Grand Street in SoHo.
Michael’s stomach began to gurgle and Tony shot him a glance.
“I’m hungry.”
“You shoulda had some of my Ring-Dings.”
“Well, I didn’t think we were going to be out all night,” Michael said, and they listened to his stomach gurgle again.
“I saw a deli around the corner on West Broadway,” Michael insisted.
Tony shook his head.
“I can’t go all night without anything in my stomach.”
“All right already! So go get a sandwich. I’ll grab the guy as he comes out.”
Michael opened the door and the bell-like door warning went off, sounding like a department-store sale.
“You have the picture of him from the office?”
Tony held up the fuzzy photo they’d ripped out of the newspaper after Michigan pointed it out to them.
“Good. I’ll be back in a minute,” Michael said, and walked toward West Broadway.
“Eh, get me some Cheez Doodles?” Tony’s voice echoed back to him.
* * *
Seventy-seven.
Seventy-eight.
Seventy-nine.
Lisa spit out the wad of paper towels in her mouth. She froze and looked at the door.… Oh God, she’d lost count!
She sat still for two minutes, shaking.
One.
Two.
Three.
This is ridiculous.
She stopped.
The fact of the matter was that Henry, thanks to her, was going to die tonight. All right. He was not a nice man. She certainly didn’t merit the abuse she took from this spoiled, illiterate brat. But did he really deserve to die for it? Did any human being deserve to die for cutting off a sixty-four-year-old’s pension? There was a snap, and she felt the tape holding her hands together break apart.
It was close but … no. No one deserved that, even if it was obvious that Mrs. Morelli was hardly the sweet little old lady Lisa’d thought she was. What could she do, though?
She put her hands up to her chin and rested her head on them. Her eyes focused on her right thumb and a chill went through her.
That was it. She was going to call the police.
She put her hand on the phone and Michael’s words came into her head. They had the appointment book. Her fingerprints were all over it. They were going to tell them that she had organized this whole thing. Would they believe two thugs over her?
She picked up the phone and dialed 911.
“Nine-one-one,” a voice responded.
“I—I need to report a crime.”
“Where?”
“Um…” she stammered. Well, now what was she going to say?
“Ma’am?” the voice prompted.
“Um, SoHo. Grand Street.”
“Where on Grand?”
“Nineteen Grand, off West Broadway.”
“Can you see what’s going on?”
“What?”
“Is the crime still in progress?”
“No. It hasn’t happened yet.”
“What?” The voice sounded annoyed.
“Look, there are two men who are going to kidnap Henry Foster Morgan, the editor-in-chief of Smug Magazine, and kill him.”
“The head of Smug? That stupid magazine that’s always getting sued?”
“Er, yes.”
“We was wondering when someone was going to have the brains to do that—come on, lady! Look, this line is for emergencies. This is not some kind of party line for your Friday night!”
Click.
Lisa felt her mouth drop open. Good God, the police weren’t interested? Who the heck else did they expect you to call in this city?
This is nuts.
A human being was going to die. Her stomach went queasy. All right, she had to get a grip on herself. She breathed deeply.
Maybe she could handle this by herself. No, she had to handle this herself. She could not just sit up in Connecticut knowing her boss was going to get killed or go thumbless. She swallowed as the odd image of Henry Foster Morgan trying to open his bottle of aspirin with no thumbs came into her head.
He’d probably just hire someone to do whatever it was that he did with his thumbs. Or, more likely, it would end up as part of her job description.
No, she had to do something. She was a competent person; she could think her way out of this.
She found herself pacing, hunched over in the office.
Well, she’d called the police, and that got her a big nothing, and she certainly didn’t want to run into those two guys again. So what could she do?
She stood straight up.
She could warn him.
That’s what she could do. Warn Henry Foster Morgan not to go out, not to leave his building. Just stay inside. Hide there until they got tired of waiting and gave up. Then he could take a long vacation. He wouldn’t mind that.
She was jolted back into the room as she gazed at the torn masking tape on her wrists.
She quickly peeled it off, cringing as she pulled. It felt like a hundred Band-Aids, and it made her angry. She rubbed the skin and picked up all the tape and threw it in the basket.
She left Henry’s office. She’d get a cab and get over there as fast as possible. She stopped short at the elevator.
What was she doing?
She should get her car and get the hell away from here is what she should do. God, she’d probably missed the barbecue, she thought, looking at her watch.
She paced in a circle.
Should she do the right thing and warn him? Or the safe thing and go to Connecticut?
She stopped still for a moment.
What a dummy! She could call him. Then she wouldn’t have to go all the way downtown, and she wouldn’t have to run into those guys, and she could get her car out of Harlem and go to Connecticut!
When the phone rang in the living room, Henry was in the process of getting himself a Bloody Mary to get him to the cocktail party. He was just about to take his first sip. He hated telephones when he had to answer them. He loved them when someone else had to answer them. He stalked into the living room and grabbed the phone.
“What!” he yelled.
Lisa sat on the other end, frozen. It was that tone of voice humiliating her, just like he did every morning. Well, he was still alive. She guessed there was some good in that. Maybe she should go to Connecticut. Leave him to that Tony guy.
“Answer, goddamn it!” his voice snarled.
“Mr. Foster Morgan?” she said, dropping her voice to try to disguise it.
“Who is this?”
She took a breath.
“Never mind. You’re in danger. Don’t go out tonight. There are men trying to kill you.”
There was a long pause, and she heard him exhale, and this odd gulping noise.
“Okay, who is this? Is this Mindy?”
“I’m telling you for your safety. Do not leave your apartment, or you’ll be killed. Wait until tomorrow morning and then get out of town as fast as you can.”
There was a pause and an odd slurping noise.
“How did you get this number? Who the hell do you think you are, calling me like this? I mean, what the fuck do you think I am? Stupid?”
“No, I�
� I—”
“Listen, you dumb bitch, you ever call this number again and I’ll have you arrested.” Click.
Zero for two. Lisa went numb. Now what was she going to do?
* * *
Michael got on line at the deli behind a woman who seemed to be ordering enough food for forty. What luck. This always happened to him. At bank machines for instance, he always got stuck behind the whack who had seventy transactions and couldn’t figure out how to use a bank card.
He needed to get away from Tony for a moment. Part of the problem with his stomach was Tony. Michael knew that Tony hadn’t liked his solution about Michigan. He’d wanted to ice her. Make it clean and neat. But he’d gone along with Michael’s reasoning. Aw God, he felt awful. They’d kill this guy, then Tony would drive him up to Giuseppe Geddone’s and watch him kill the guy. They’d go back down to Solly’s and collect the envelopes.
Fourteen thousand, that was his cut.
He stared at the salads and pastas behind the glass counter. The woman moved off and Michael finally ordered his sandwich.
He had to figure a way out of this whole mess. He couldn’t shoot somebody. He just couldn’t do it. He got to the checkout, grabbed a bag of Cheez Doodles for Tony, and went back to the car. His appetite seemed gone as he tossed the bag into the front seat.
“He come out yet?”
“Naw,” Tony said, and ripped open the bag with his teeth.
They’d been sitting very still, eating. Michael had just been looking down at the morning’s Daily News when Tony nudged him. He looked up, across the street at the doorway.
Standing in front of it was a guy who had on a long white coat. He was searching in his pocket for something. He looked like a doctor.
Tony held up the Page Six photo, his eyes bouncing from the windshield to the blurry photo.
“That’s him,” Tony proclaimed. “C’mon.”
Michael thought quickly.
“Naw, that’s not him,” he said lazily, then took a bite of his sandwich.
“Mikey, look. It’s the same guy.” He held up the paper.
“No, look at the picture. That’s an older guy there. A guy about fifty. The one across the street’s young,” he said, waving the sandwich.
They watched the man take off his regular glasses and put on a pair of jet black sunglasses.
“I dunno, looks the same to me.”
Wiseguys In Love Page 8