by Dani Amore
And you had people like Vawter always ready to remind you of that failure. Amanda watched Vawter’s feet go up on her desk.
“I really, really do not intend to get on your shit this often.”
“Glad to hear it, sir.”
“But I have to get your reaction. A twin brother?”
“These are strange times, my friend.”
“So what are you doing?”
“Picking my ass.”
Vawter was momentarily speechless.
“I’m trying to find my informant, of course.”
Vawter got to his feet.
“Good luck,” he said. “Looks like you need it.”
***
The fact was, she was doing everything possible to find Tommy Goddamn Abrocci.
She had Daniels keeping an eye on Romano. She had Rupert staking out Abrocci’s apartment. She had Macaleer watching Loreli Karstens’ house.
And so far, there’d been nothing.
Amanda went through the data in her mind. She needed to crunch it; to process it like she was a mainframe. Fact: Tommy Abrocci was working undercover for the FBI against Vincenzo Romano. Fact: he, or someone using his credit card, checked into the Prescott Hotel. Fact: Tommy’s twin brother was murdered at that hotel. Fact: A hooker was seen leaving the hotel. Fact: Tommy Abrocci was still missing.
Amanda let those facts simmer on the crock pot of her consciousness. She left her office, walked out to her cruiser, got in, put it in gear, and drove down Adams until it intersected with Jefferson. She paused at the red light. To the right was the Lodge freeway. She could take that north to Birmingham, to home. To the left was Jefferson, to I-94, 696 and Loreli Karstens’ home. That was where Tommy had gone, she was almost sure of it. Whatever happened in that hotel room, the hooker was the key. Amanda felt that if she found the hooker, she’d find Tommy.
Amanda would send Macaleer home, and then she would take over the watch.
She only hoped she wouldn’t be too late.
32.
Nick Falcone was thirteen years old when he was first involved in murder. A strapping kid even at that tender age, the young Falcone was a beacon for trouble. Older kids were threatened by him, younger kids taunted him. It was his uncle, a man known as Freddy “Two-Bit” Falcone, who took the young Falcone under his wing. He introduced him to his “fellas” a group of East side Detroit men reputedly tied to legendary mob boss Vincenzo Romano.
It was to be the younger Falcone’s first score: knocking off a semi-truck at Detroit’s metro airport. There were two other men involved, Nick knew one, but not the other. They went to the airport, changed into grounds crew maintenance uniforms, and casually strolled out to the truck. One of the men knocked out the driver, another man clobbered a guy with a clipboard. Nick ran to the cab. He threw open the door and watched, stunned, as a black man leapt over him, firing a sawed-off shotgun seemingly into his ear. Nick had stood there, transfixed. The shotgun had blown the head off of Two-Bit. The black man then fired the other barrel directly into the man on the crew Nick did know, a cousin of Two-Bits. The black man turned his attention back to Nick. He stood over him, giant nostrils flaring. Nick could smell booze and pot smoke on the man.
“Saw you bitches in the side mirror. Didn’t think a bad-ass like me would be ridin’ shotgun, huh?” The man thrust the barrel of the shotgun into Nick’s chest. Nick fell to the cold pavement. “For a big boy, you sure go down easy.” The black man put the barrel of the gun to Nick’s temple.
And then the black man sank to his knees. A gout of his forehead burst onto the pavement and Nick barely heard the shot.
He turned and the unknown man was there.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Sandwiched between a collision repair shop and an insurance office, Danny’s Irish Pub on Woodward Avenue was a small, dark place that because of its name was the last place anyone would expect wiseguys to meet and hang out. For that reason, Jack Cleveland picked it as the spot to meet with Nick Falcone.
Jack entered through the back door and walked down a narrow hallway. Ahead, he could make out the bar with two large beefy older men sitting with identical tap beers in front of them, watching the television hung from the ceiling and angled into the corner of the room.
The women’s bathroom was on Jack’s left, the men’s room on his right. He walked past both, not looking at the framed maps of Ireland that hung on the wall.
Jack stepped into the main room. The bar was on the right, with fifteen or so bar stools in a line. A group of tables was on the left, most with four chairs around them. Along the left wall was a row of booths broken up by the jukebox that sat squarely in the middle against the wall.
No songs were playing.
The only sound in the tavern was the low volume from the television, and the sound of a dishwasher in the back room behind the bar.
Jack stepped into the room and looked to his left where Falcone sat. He’d chosen the booth farthest in back, but had chosen the side of the table facing the wall, giving Jack the seat that would put the wall behind him.
Jack appreciated the gesture.
He walked to the bar and ordered a tap beer, slid a dollar bill across the bar where the bartender, a large woman with pink arms and flaxen hair tied back in a pony tail wordlessly pushed the beer across the bar to him.
Jack glanced at the television, saw that the men were watching a rerun of the 60s television show “Gunsmoke.” He watched as Festus tried to explain something to Matt Dillon, while Doc watched on, his trademark squint in full display.
Jack sat down in the booth across from Falcone. Neither offered to shake hands.
Before Falcone spoke, Jack thought about the man in front of him. He knew the risks Falcone was taking. That the very act of sending the blind e-mail to Jack’s equally blind intermediary was a huge step for Falcone to have taken. It was the kind of thing Vincenzo Romano would not be pleased with. Depending on the kind of information Falcone was about to provide, it was an act that could result in the man’s death.
“You remember that night? The truck? The airport? The black guy with the shotgun?”
Jack nodded. He had no way of knowing for sure if Falcone was wearing a wire. He planned to take no chances.
“I could have died that night. Was going to die that night, if it hadn’t been for you.”
This time, Jack didn’t even bother to nod.
“A lot of people have done me favors over the years, but none that begin to compare to that one. I never figured I’d be able to pay you back, to clear the slate, but now I think I can.”
Falcone drained the rest of his tap beer and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. He picked up the empty glass and peered into the bottom before saying, “He hired the Spook.”
Jack sat very still. Rather than speak the questions that were racing through his mind, he cycled through them logically. How did Falcone know? He must have overheard, or been there when Romano made the decision. Was the Spook hired to find the money or to kill Jack? Probably both. From what Jack knew of the man called the Spook, he would want to kill Jack purely for professional reasons.
And Betty, too.
Jack got to his feet.
“We’re even?” Falcone asked.
Jack nodded.
He left then, and Falcone turned to watch the television, saw Miss Kitty pour a shot for Doc and Festus.
He went to the bar.
“Shot of whiskey, please.”
The big Irish gal poured it for him.
33.
When she was a child Amanda Rierdon was so tense that the sound of her teeth grinding at night while slept could be heard in the neighboring bedrooms. “You were always wound tighter than one of those balls made out of rubberbands,” her mother had told her.
Now, Amanda pulled onto I-75 North and made a conscious effort to stop grinding her teeth. A tension headache of the severest magnitude made her feel like her head was encased in shrink-wrap. The stress was so thick
in her body that her shoulders felt like they were being pulled apart by some unforeseen, ungodly force.She rotated her head and neck, the movement accompanied by small popping sounds.
Traffic was winding down from the evening rush hour and she was glad for that. She wasn’t in the mood to fight traffic.
It was Thursday night and Amanda had left the office, ostensibly to go home, grab a quick bite, pay some bills, and return to the office three or four hours later. When shit like Tommy Abrocci was piling up, the idea of keeping regular hours was nonexistent.
Besides, the fact was, there wasn’t much more she could do. She’d posted a guard on Loreli Karstens’ house. Should she come home, the guard would immediately call Amanda and they would hold her for questioning.
Likewise, there was no sign of Tommy Abrocci.
Every cop in southeastern Michigan had Tommy’s picture, but so far there’d been no sightings.
So, all that was left to do was wait.
So it was that Amanda found herself able to open up the three or four hours she needed to make a little trip to a motel north of the city.
As she got closer to her destination, Amanda felt the reins of control she held so tightly over herself start to come undone, like silk shoulder straps on a silk nightgown. She imagined what her lover would do to her body over the course of the next few hours and her body reacted palpably to the images. Warm blood flowed to her pelvis. Her nipples hardened and soft, gentle shivers cascaded up and down her spine. She slid her hand down between her legs and pressed inward. Waves of pleasure surged through her thighs, the lower part of her belly.
She was ready.
God was she ready.
It took a few more minutes for Amanda to reach her exit and then another five to get to the hotel.
She parked the car and walked toward the room. Her legs were already slightly weak, her body thrumming like a plucked guitar string. Her lover was on the other side of this door and her body knew it.
My God, she thought. I’m about to come.
She knocked on the door.
It swung open.
“Come on in,” Big Paulie said.
34.
Segovia’s “Rusa: Andante energico” poured from the six speakers inside the gray Volkswagen Passat with all the verve and energy the Spanish guitarists fingers could muster. With a blazing flourish the song ended, its notes slipping back to the fabled lands of Andalusia, the space in its wake slowly filled in with the mundane sounds of the car’s engine, passing traffic, and suburban America. The melody of the Motor City.
Betty Vanessa Willian pulled off the freeway and drove into the small suburb of Ferndale.
Hers was a mixed race neighborhood middle class whites and blacks living together in relative harmony, both sides keeping a stringent eye on property values. The homes were older here, and bigger, than on the eastern side of Woodward Avenue, where mostly older white folks lived, and who resented the somewhat recent movement of blacks into the area.
Betty’s neighbors were fine. They thought she was a salesperson for IBM, concentrating in selling and setting up computer systems for small to medium-sized business. A misperception aided by Betty’s business cards and detailed discussions of her business trips. In fact, Betty had taken several computer classes, even worked as a trainee for a local computer company to help learn the trade jargon. She subscribed to several industry publications to keep on top of changes. The more legitimate her cover, the better.
Betty steered the car into the driveway of her modest, three bedroom colonial. She pressed the button on the garage door opener and pulled inside. She hit the button to close the garage door, then shut the car off, pulled the lever and popped the trunk. She got out of the car, went back and pulled out her laptop computer case. It held an IBM laptop, naturally. But in the side pocket was a very non-traditional piece of equipment for a computer salesperson.
She withdrew the .38 from the pocket, and screwed the silencer onto the end of the muzzle, then slung the computer bag over her shoulder. She crossed the garage and unlocked the door that opened onto a mudroom. She closed the door behind her, then set the computer bag on a low bench that sat against the wall. There was a coat rack above the bench, and a small key holder. She hung the keys on the holder.
With the gun held in her right hand, hanging loosely against her thigh, she stood silently on the small landing.
Compared to other key moments in her profession, this was not one of the most dangerous. Nonetheless, it was a routine into which she’d fallen. Her former mentor and lover, the man who’d taught her the ropes of the profession, hadn’t practiced this routine. And after a hit, he’d returned home to find a retaliatory force waiting for him. His career and his life had ended.
Now, Betty listened to the sounds of her house.
Tonight, she would have to be more careful than usual, if that were possible. Jack had warned her that with the money missing, Romano would be wondering where it had gone. Jack didn’t believe they would become targets, but stranger things had happened.
Betty listened closely. She was familiar with every creak and groan, every pop and squeak contained within the walls of her home. And now, she identified them one by one. The gentle tick of the clock in the living room. The hum of the refrigerator. Even the barely discernable buzz of the lamp in the upstairs alcove she left on twenty-four hours a day.
She took a deep breath and caught the faint scent of pesto in the air. It was from the pasta she’d had for dinner the night before. There was some left over in the fridge, and she’d warm it up for dinner tonight.
Betty slipped off her shoes and noiselessly turned to the left and descended the stairs to the basement. Her stockinged feet made no noise, her light body creating not even a hint of a creak on the stairs.
Her routine consisted of going through the house from bottom to top, until she was satisfied there was nothing in her house but the promise of a quiet evening and a good night’s sleep.
Betty made her way through the basement. She stepped into the laundry room and eyed the windows high up on the wall. All of them intact.
She walked back out into the main room of the basement, circled the furnace and water heater, walked past the workbench area, then turned and went back up the stairs.
Betty walked through the kitchen and into the dining room. The built-in china cabinet glistened in the early evening light. The table was spotless. A small bouquet of flowers served as the centerpiece. She walked through the dining room, and into the hallway that led to a small bathroom and two bedrooms. Her master bedroom and bathroom were on the second floor. Betty pictured her luxurious bathtub upstairs. She’d gotten a replica of the old style tub—the kind with the claw feet—
The rustle of fabric reached her ears just before the blow. There was a split second when her mind sent the message to her muscles to act quickly and duck, move to the left or the right. But no sooner was the message sent than the brain received a blow to its base.
A moment later, the freelance hitter known in the Detroit underworld as Black Betty, was lost in blackness.
35.
As she slowly began to awaken, the sound of music rang in her ears. It was on her stereo. She had a brief thought that maybe she’d fallen asleep and was now being awakened by her clock radio. She recognized the song. It was the Rolling Stones. “Sweet Black Angel.”
Her eyes opened and the pain forced her to shut them again. The blow to her head had rocked her. Even now, she could feel the swelling at the base of her head.
She opened her eyes.
Struggled to move.
But she couldn’t. Her feet were tied. In fact, she was flat on her back. She tried to lift her arms, but they were tied to the chair. The chair was tipped over onto its back. Her legs were tied to the legs of the chair. Her feet stuck up straight in the air. Her socks had been taken off. She tried to roll to the left, but she couldn’t. She tried, and failed, to roll to the right. She relaxed her body, struggled to th
ink clearly. Betty fought down the panic. Flat on her back, in the middle of her living room, she stared at the ceiling.
Behind her, she heard a slight intake of breath.
“Ah, the African princess awakes.”
She craned her head back, was able to make out the dark shape of a man sitting in a chair with his legs crossed. A gun in one hand, a smoking cigarette in the other. The chair was one of her dining room chairs. The same kind to which she’d been expertly tied.
Betty tried to sound cool. Confident. “We’re both professionals. Let’s settle this like business people. Tell me what you want, and I’ll do my best to give it to you.”
The man gave a soft, dry chuckle.
Betty watched him, saw his right foot moving in time to the music on the stereo.
“So you’re a fan of Segovia?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Do you know that he called the electric guitar “an abomination?”
“I had heard that.”
A soft, raspy sigh.
“Do you like the Stones?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said immediately.
Again, the soft chuckle. Betty could hear a slight rasp in his throat and nose. The sound of too many cigarettes and maybe too much booze.
“Mmm,” he said. “Are you sure?” His voice was slightly reproachful. “I didn’t see any in your collection.”
“I” Betty began.
“Don’t worry, I always carry a few extra around for times like this.”
Betty tried to control her breathing.
“Now, let me tell you about professionalism, since you brought it up. Being a pro means that you do your job and you do it well. Let’s say you’re in a band. A label hires you to put out a blues album. You don’t take the money then come back and give them a collection of reggae songs.”