by Tim Baker
Hastings finally got it.
Luchino was better than him.
Full of remorse, Hastings filled both his hands with gunmetal, one pointing at Alderisio, who was liable to get himself and Nicoletti killed, the other at Roselli and Momo—just in case. Luchino nodded, satisfied with his ally. ‘Now, mes amis, will you let Monsieur Roselli answer the question?’
Roselli slowly raised his hands. ‘Settle down, boys, we’re all friends.’
‘Then you better explain to us who the other team is and how you expect to get all of us out alive.’
Roselli looked at Momo, who nodded. He was famous for hating the sight of blood . . . especially his own, and Momo knew he was just two angry men away from a bloodbath.
‘Cubans.’
‘Communists?’
Roselli looked at Luchino like he was crazy. ‘Fuck no! Anti-Castro.’
The knife under Nicoletti’s chin disappeared. It was not taken away; it just vanished as quickly as it appeared. A ghost blade. Luchino either had a gimmick or he was a magician. Hastings kept his guns out though. Everyone was still in that dangerous simmer time, when emotions were so hot, people forgot they were mortal.
‘How many?’
‘Four.’
Like them. ‘Who are they?’
‘Put those fucking guns away and I’ll tell you . . . ’
Hastings watched Nicoletti and Alderisio. ‘Everyone nice and calm again . . . ?’
‘How the fuck do I know—he pulled the knife.’
‘I pulled the knife, my friend, because—’
Nicoletti interrupted. ‘I ain’t no fucking friend of yours.’
Luchino shrugged with sad acceptance. ‘Because—my enemy—you had already gone for your gun. That makes me nervous.’
‘Who gives a shit, you fucking frog.’
Hastings made a mental note. Kill Nicoletti before Alderisio. He intervened. ‘Castro, anti-Castro. So what? Question is, can they shoot?’
‘Ex-military. CIA-trained. They were Bay of Pigs.’
The ones that got away. ‘So they’re pissed.’
‘Awful pissed and pumped and ready to do what it takes to nail the president.’
‘Why two teams? You could put two of us in the warehouse, and two in the hotel?’
Roselli looked at Momo uncomfortably, caught out being stupid. Again. Roselli hadn’t thought of that question. He was going to have to improvise his lie.
‘Backup, that’s all. We can’t afford to miss.’
Especially if the target had expanded to include Hastings and Luchino. Hastings turned to Momo. ‘I don’t get it. A Chicago hit. You know everyone will finger you.’
‘That’s my alibi. I’d have to be nuts to do it on home turf. Besides, what with the Cubans . . . ’
He shut up fast. Not fast enough. Luchino tapped the edge of ash from his cigarette. His only outward reaction to the revelation: the Cubans were being set up too. They were patsies. Just like the psycho, Thomas Vallee. And just like Hastings and Luchino. Only Vallee and the Cubans would be blamed, would be hounded down and shot by the police, their bodies displayed like Zapata’s alongside posing ghouls. Hastings and Luchino’s fate would be very different. They would simply disappear. Luchino’s sun-bleached blue eyes stared into his. The secret knowledge was shared. Roselli and Momo had no idea they knew—how could they: they were men without instinct; men without epiphanies. Nicoletti sat there and sulked. Alderisio picked his nose. They were patsies too—only further along in the game. After the bodies and the guns had been taken care of, and the concrete floors hosed down and the drains unclogged of human remains. They were the final act. The dry-cleaning. The polishing of the faucet and the door handle. The endgame in the perfect crime. Nicoletti and Alderisio: a couple of woodlice extinguished with the parting footsteps. Unnoticed. Unmourned. Unmissed.
Never existed . . .
‘So,’ Momo said, false cheer in his voice, ‘I guess that’s that.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Now we can get on with some trick or treat.’
CHAPTER 13
Los Angeles 1960
Schiller has ordered everyone out of the house. Only Old Man Bannister stays inside, resting in his bed with his overpriced society doctor and a suspiciously young nurse. Everyone else is standing on the garden lawn in front of the steps, a regiment of uniformed household staff staring over at the tilled soil in the grove.
Mrs. Bannister stands with Schiller, going through lists and pointing people out. Servants step forward as they are named, like tryouts at a casting call.
‘I only count sixteen. Where are the others?’ Faces pivot to Morris. He loosens his tie with a finger to the collar, as though already feeling the noose.
‘Higgins and Greta have the day off, sir. And Dale is ill.’
Schiller turns to a cop. ‘Take them all down to the station and hold them there for questioning. Fingerprint them all. I have two dusting units on their way right now.’
The staff is herded down the driveway towards a bus parked outside the estate. The grease monkey we saw in the garage gives me a queer look as he walks by. He wants to talk. He is alone amongst the others. The rest of the staff is remarkably compliant as they stand around the bus. The Old Man tells them to do something and they do it: mow the lawn; polish the silver; wash the car. Go to jail. Only on this Monopoly board they won’t be collecting $200. Old Man Bannister is planning on firing most of them. ‘Isn’t there anyone you trust amongst them?’ Schiller had asked after the phone call.
‘Trust? That is not a word one uses with domestic employees, Captain Schiller. I trust in God, Country and myself.’
If Schiller noticed the conspicuous absence of the LAPD in the list, he didn’t show it.
‘There must be some staff you value over others?’
‘Morris. Taylor, the chauffeur. The head chef. That’s all.’
‘I’ll concentrate on them first . . . ’
And Schiller had, making sure the three rode separately in patrol cars. I wander over to the bus, tapping a cigarette out of its package. The mechanic already has a match lit. The flame of conspiracy. ‘I think I know who did it . . . ’ He has a reliable voice, no waver; no plea. He’s not selling anything, at least not that I can see.
I suck in fresh smoke, look around. No one seems to be noticing. ‘Did what?’
‘Made the call. It was . . . ’ The doors to the bus spring open with a snapping shudder. A patrolman surges forward, shoving the mechanic, hard, towards the doors. ‘Get a move on!’
‘Hey, lay off. They’re witnesses, not suspects.’
‘That’s not what I heard . . . ’
‘Then clean those potatoes out of your ears, ’cause you heard wrong.’
A sergeant comes up in support. ‘Butt out, Alston, this is no concern of yours.’
It’s that fat fuck, Barnsley. ‘I’m Mr. Bannister’s personal representative. This all concerns me, Barnsley.’
‘Tell it to the judge.’
‘I’ll tell it to Chief Parker.’
‘Fink.’
‘Fuck.’
There is the clash of shoulders as we collide, like goddamn mountain rams. Other cops gather round, probably hoping to see Barnsley get his teeth kicked in. They sure as hell don’t signal solidarity. The sergeant backs away.
‘Your day will come, Alston.’
‘It came five years ago, Barnsley, when I left the Force and jackasses like you behind.’
Barnsley adjusts his tunic, hoisting his gun belt. His face ticks with the desire to hurt me. He and the other cop stomp off. I saunter back over to the mechanic. ‘Sorry about that. Hope he didn’t hurt you . . . ’
‘I was on Iwo Jima. I don’t hurt easy.’
‘I was there too. What’s your name?’
‘Philip Hastings.’
‘You been on the job long?’
‘A while.’
‘And you think you know who made the call?’
‘Look, I’m no stool pigeon but . . . ’ He glances around. Four or five of the staff are staring at him. Whispers are going out. They know what he’s doing. Naming names. It could be theirs. ‘There’s this kid, Hidalgo. Works as a gardener. I saw him by the phone in the garage.’
A stillness passes between us. It is the transgression. He has given me valuable information. But he has also borne witness against another. I have asked him to do so, and for my troubles I am complicit in his betrayal. In his sin. I offer him a cigarette. He’s smart enough not to take it in front of the others. ‘Mexican?’
‘Cuban.’
‘He’s here now?’
The very faintest of nods. ‘Over by the back there . . . Watching us.’
A gardener . . . ‘You ever see him digging around the grove over there?’
Hastings masks his eyes behind his smoke, talking out of the side of his mouth. ‘That’s all he ever does. Digs holes . . . Then fills them.’
Bingo. ‘Thanks. I’ll catch up with you at the station.’ I drop my cigarette and stomp it out as Hastings joins the others, who all turn their backs on him.
I look at my watch then up at the sky. Then I turn as casually as I can, my eyes making the briefest of contact with the kid, Hidalgo.
He bolts, racing round in front of the bus, heading across the boulevard.
A cop shouts.
There is the screech of brakes.
The hiss of tires locking . . .
And then the empty thud of a body hit hard.
Birds burst from the trees, scattering fragmented shadows for an instant.
Everyone runs onto the road, cars screeching to a halt, the household staff shouting, cops stopping traffic. There is the low sob of disbelief and the stunned mutter of surprise, and the driver shaky on his feet as he protests his innocence.
I stand there, staring at the kid’s legs protruding from under the car, sunlight and shadows shifting nervously through the crazy sway of palms.
And then I get it.
I look around.
Too late.
Hastings is gone.
I slap the pocket of my coat. The son of a bitch.
The lighter is missing too.
CHAPTER 14
Los Angeles 1960
Schiller steps out of the emergency room, closing the door on the wave of cold air reaching out behind him, trying to tug us both back into the gleaming metal realm of trauma, accident and death. He shivers and pulls out a cigarette. ‘Touch and go . . . Doc thinks maybe go.’
I swear. ‘Did they at least let you take his prints?’ He nods . . . Savouring the silence.
I wait as long as I can. ‘And . . . ?’
‘Good news and bad news.’
I sigh. Other men play chess. Schiller plays games. ‘Okay, start with the good.’
‘Hidalgo’s prints are all over the phone in the garage.’
‘So he made the call?’
‘Maybe. Maybe he was just talking to his girl . . . ’
‘And the bad news?’
Schiller gives his ugly smile and takes one step towards me, cuffs already in his hands. ‘You’re under arrest.’
‘What the . . . ?’
His wheezing laugh echoes off the broken tile walls. ‘I can dream, can’t I?’ He slips the cuffs back into his jacket. ‘The look on your face.’
The look on his if I slugged him the way I wanted to. ‘Very funny. What’s the bad news?’
‘Hastings’s prints were all over the phone too.’
I swear. He’s holding back. There’s worse to come, I can feel it. ‘How do you know they’re Hastings’s prints? Does he have a rap sheet?’
Schiller shakes his head. ‘But we’ve matched them with the tools down there. Who else would they belong to?’
Try the real kidnapper’s . . . ‘How many other phones are there in the house?’
‘Eight. We’ve got nine matches for all the prints, including Mr. and Mrs. Bannister.’
‘Forget them, they were both in the room.’
‘That still leaves five others, excluding Hidalgo and Hastings.’
‘Was Greta Simmons one of them?’
Schiller shrugs lazily. The sleepless night or the decanter of scotch is getting to him. ‘Soon as we pull her in, we’ll know.’
Prints on phones, Jesus, we need something more than that. ‘How many times do the servants touch the phone, even just to dust it?’
‘In my home the dust just minds its own business.’
‘Your home is not normal . . . ’
‘And Old Man Bannister’s is?’
’Speaking of which, I’ve got to get back there. But I wanted to talk to Elaine Bannister first.’
‘They’re not letting anyone talk to her, at least for the moment.’
I glance at my watch; swear. ‘Look at the time, no wonder I’m tired . . . ’ And starving. We start heading down the corridor towards the exit.
‘Before you go, just one more thing . . . ’
This is the real bad news, moving in fast like a storm system off the Pacific. The air is alive with electricity. With the potential for disaster. ‘What is it?’
‘This Hidalgo kid . . . ?’
The pause is excruciating. Schiller smiles maliciously. This is going to be really bad.
‘Well, it turns out he was some kind of a fucking spy.’
’How the hell do you figure that?’
Schiller smiles, picking his teeth with a thumbnail. ‘Could be because some FBI agent from Boston just arrested him . . . ’
‘What the hell has Boston got to do with this?’ Schiller shrugs, hands me a card. I read the agent’s name: H. Paul Rico. ‘What the hell is this about? He can’t just march in and arrest an unconscious patient.’
There’s a shift in Schiller’s eyes. ‘I know what you’re going to say. I said it, too, straight to the Fed’s face. Next thing you know, J. fucking Edgar himself is hollering at me on the phone, telling me to back off.’
I study his eyes for a long moment, then smile. ‘You are bullshitting me . . . ’
He shakes his head, flicks a piece of retrieved food in the direction of the emergency room’s doors. ‘Go inside and look for yourself. The kid’s handcuffed to his bed. The doctor was awful pissed.’
‘But you have jurisdiction.’
‘Kidnapping’s a federal crime.’
‘What state lines have been crossed? Jesus, the FBI can’t just . . . ’ I see the exasperated look on his face and stop. Of course they can. ‘So what does it mean?’
‘You’re the one getting paid to think, you tell me.’
‘Hidalgo was an undercover Fed?’
‘He’s just a kid.’
A Cuban kid. ‘What if he wasn’t an operative, but he was on the payroll. An informer, keeping an eye on someone.’
‘So why arrest him?’
‘To protect him? Or maybe to divert attention.’
Schiller shakes his head. ‘You try too hard, you know that?’
‘Hastings said the kid was Cuban. Maybe he’s a Communist. Maybe the FBI caught him, threatened him with deportation, made him rat someone out.’
‘Just like a fucking Red.’
‘Or maybe he’s anti-communist. Maybe he’s against this new guy, what’s his name—Castro? Or maybe he was working for the mob in Havana?’ Schiller screws up his face. Grey is too complicated for Schiller—he thinks in black and white.
‘So where the hell is this Fed?’
‘He said he had a car outside.’
‘I’m going to ask him some questions . . . ’
Schiller grabs my arm.
‘Don’t mess with Hoover.’
I throw his hand off my arm. ‘If it comes down to J. Edgar and Old Man Bannister, I know whose side I’m on.’ I push past Schiller, heading towards the ambulance bay.
The sunlight is an assault, leaching the world of vision. I scan the washed-out world, shapes and colours slowly restoring meaning. An empty black ’57 Plymouth is parked illegally in the driveway, next to an ambulance. The ambulance driver looks at me in his side mirror. Sunken eyes, black-rimmed and lifeless; contaminated by all the dead and the dying he’s been carrying around the city. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be one of this hack’s fares. He glares at me as I look through his window. ‘Just checking to see the meter’s down.’ I flash my badge fast, sunlight reflecting off it, hitting him square in the eyes. LAPD, PI, Cereal Box—badges are all the same if they glint. ‘Have you seen the agent who belongs to that car?’
‘Try the john.’ He sneers, withered teeth revealing a deeper, internal decay. ‘If you hurry, you might still catch him beating his meat.’
I reach in and snatch the ignition keys from the Plymouth, then follow a dark, half-sunken lane past a stinking platoon of Dempster Dumpmasters, entering a murky kingdom of shadows, leaky pipes and trash cans overflowing with surgical waste. There are gloomy public toilets half-hidden at the end of a sad track of worn linoleum.
Inside are two men in dark suits, both with their pants around their ankles, one about to sexually assault a handcuffed, half-naked woman; the other about to do the same to a handcuffed, half-naked man. I draw my Colt Police Positive .38 Special. ‘Stop or I’ll shoot!’
The man behind the woman freezes, then turns, his erection pointing straight at me. ‘Relax, mister, I don’t mind sharing.’
The other would-be rapist quietly adjusts his trousers, going for a Smith & Wesson .38 in a holster attached to his belt.
‘Don’t . . . ’
He raises his hands slowly, his trousers gliding back down around his ankles. ‘We’re all friends here . . . ’
I nod to the couple as I take his revolver, empty the rounds onto the floor, then slip it between my waist and belt. ‘Uncuff your friends fast, or I’ll separate you from your sorry little balls.’