by Thomas Perry
Crane climbed back up to the second floor and into the office, and went to sit at his desk. He was still thinking about Chelsea. She was always in the back of his mind the way there were always a few programs running on a computer behind what he saw on the screen. He had thought of a few theories about her, but he had made no progress figuring out what she wanted. The one idea he’d had that seemed promising was to remember everything he could about her relationship with Nick Bauermeister. Thinking about her with Nick wasn’t pleasant for him, but whatever Nick had done, she must have liked it.
“Car coming in,” said Harriman. He was looking out the front window toward the street.
Crane raised his eyes to the color security monitor for the camera at the gate and saw the dark gray Mercedes stopped at the front gate. The driver reached out his window and took a ticket from the machine, the barrier went up, and the car glided into the lot. Crane knew the car, which had always seemed a little eerie to him. The color was exactly the dark gray color of the road, so it was practically invisible except for the chrome parts. Crane saw that the driver’s arm still hung out the open window, and the hand released the ticket to flutter to the pavement. The car pulled up to the building and parked directly behind Crane’s Range Rover, blocking him in.
Crane said, “You can go down and help Steel and Slawicky for a bit.”
Harriman got up and went down the stairs. Crane could hear him open the side door, and he looked up at the monitor to watch him start walking along the drive between two long rows of storage bays.
Crane waited. He always felt a twinge of fear when Salamone showed up this way. Some time ago Crane had begun to think that the last sounds he would hear on earth might be the footsteps of Salamone and a couple of his guys on the stairs. The idea had bothered him for such a long time that he had tried several ways of lessening the anxiety. He had tried talking to Salamone on the telephone so he wouldn’t have a reason to drive all the way out here in person. But Salamone wouldn’t talk to him on the telephone. He said he liked to be able to look into a man’s face while he talked business, but Crane suspected it was because so many men of Salamone’s acquaintance had been the victims of wiretaps.
He had also tried keeping a short-barreled shotgun in the coat closet behind his desk. The shotgun hadn’t been a good idea. Salamone came in one rainy day, took off his coat, and opened the closet door to hang it up. He said, “What’s the shotgun for?”
Crane said, “Protection. People know we have duplicate keys to all the bays, and we take in cash and checks. I don’t want some holdup jerk to come in and kill one of my guys so he can steal some customer’s stamp collection.”
“If your guy is smart enough to give him the keys, nobody gets killed. Get rid of the shotgun. If your place gets robbed, we’ll get it all back. I promise.”
Crane knew that Salamone was telling the truth, that it had been the truth for over a hundred years, and that it would still be true after they were both gone and forgotten. Salamone wasn’t just some guy. He was speaking as a member and representative of the organization, which in Western New York was called the Arm.
Crane listened to the footsteps coming up the stairs. As always, the first one to appear was Cantorese, the big man. He was about six feet three and fat. It was a hot, humid day, and he was wearing a loose Hawaiian shirt that hung down over his belt and covered the gun at the back of his pants. His small eyes were already scanning everything in sight, and then settled on Crane and never left him. He stepped aside from the landing and stopped to Crane’s right. The etiquette of these meetings was that one didn’t greet Cantorese. He was there, and you could nod to him or—if you were, for some strange reason, happy to see him—you could smile. He didn’t care what you thought, so either was wasted.
The second man up was Salamone. He was about fifty years old, but his body seemed younger. He had good posture and was light on his feet. Today he looked as though he had been golfing. He wore a dark blue polo shirt and a pair of well-tailored black pants, with a pair of rubber-soled walking shoes.
Behind him was Pistore, who trailed behind Salamone by five or six steps and half turned to look over his shoulder occasionally. It was clear to Crane that if something had been happening behind the three men, it was Pistore’s job to take care of it. Crane had, a couple of times, caught sight of guns on Pistore. Today he didn’t have a sports jacket, but he carried a thin nylon windbreaker over his left arm, undoubtedly to conceal something lethal.
Salamone reached the office and stepped up to Crane. “Danny boy.” He gave Crane a quick hug and a pat on the back, then held him at arm’s length and stared into his eyes for a half second, then released him. He went to sit behind Crane’s desk.
When Salamone was settled, Pistore returned to the top of the stairwell and leaned against the wall. From there he could see the bottom of the stairs, the big paved aisles between storage buildings, and Daniel Crane. Pistore was a generation younger than the other men, so he seemed to do most of the chores. Crane knew that if death were to come, he would probably be the one to administer it.
Salamone sat back in Crane’s leather desk chair looking contented. Crane knew that the hug Salamone sometimes gave other men had nothing to do with friendship. He had been checking to see if Crane had microphones or wires on his body. Salamone was the conduit for Crane’s stolen goods, but Crane couldn’t know all of the other businesses that Salamone had going. For many years he had run the network of barbershops, bars, gas stations, and convenience stores where people bought each week’s football betting slips in this area. On Mondays, Salamone drove around to those businesses and picked up his profits. He also had some kind of deal with the people who stole luggage at the airport, and some share of an auto parts business. But he could be doing almost anything.
Salamone leaned forward. “Well, Danny, what have you got to tell me?”
“I’ve got your percentage for the storage business,” Crane said. “It was pretty good last month. People paint and remodel during the summer, or go on vacations, so they seem to store things more often.” He went to the safe in the corner of the room. It was left unlocked during the day, so he just opened the door and took out a stack of bills he had placed there. He set it on his desk in front of Salamone.
Salamone pursed his lips and gave a silent whistle to show he was impressed. “How much is that?”
“Six thousand, seven hundred forty-five. Ten percent.”
Salamone nodded, then held it up to hand it to Cantorese, who made the money disappear under his voluminous shirt. Salamone said, “I’ve got something for you, too. It’s the money for the last load of stuff we sold. Pistore, give him his money.”
Pistore stepped up to the unoccupied desk where Harriman had sat, spread his windbreaker on the surface, and unzipped the pockets. Out of each pocket he took a stack of bills with a rubber band around it. When the stacks were all on the desk, he stepped back and put on his windbreaker.
Salamone said, “It’s twenty-two thousand. Are you pleased?”
“It’s hard not to be,” said Crane.
“How are we doing so far this month?”
“It looks good again. We got another load in this morning, just like the last few. Summer has always been good for us. Vacations, like I said. And people open a lot of windows and forget to close one when they go somewhere. It’s also when there’s a lot of remodeling and construction and stuff, so nobody notices one more truck parked by a house.”
Salamone smiled and nodded, then reverted to his serious expression. “Danny, you kind of skipped over something that I’ve been wondering about. You told me how good last month was, but you lost a guy last month, that guy Nick.”
“Well, yeah,” said Crane. “I didn’t think you’d be interested in that.”
“He got shot to death. Sure I’m interested. Who killed him?”
“Nick said he got drunk in a bar, and got into a fight with some Indian. The guy knocked him cold. The cops were pressing charges for assault.”
“So who killed him?”
“The Indian, I guess.”
“No, he didn’t. Guys kill people for reasons. They kill for money, or over a girl, or something like that. Nobody beats some stranger up in a bar and then comes back and kills him too. Winning a fight is kind of a one-act deal.” He paused. “So I’m asking you, Danny. Who killed him?”
“The police think—”
“I’ll ask one more time. Who killed him?”
“I did.”
Salamone grinned and looked at Cantorese and Pistore. “See?” He tapped his index finger on his temple.
The others said nothing, and showed neither surprise nor disapproval.
Salamone turned to Crane again. “You did the right thing by being honest with me. I want to make that clear to you. Pistore, give him the rest of his money.”
Pistore reached into another pocket in his jacket and put another stack of bills on the desk.
Salamone said, “You’re honest with us, so we’re honest with you. Tell me why you killed him.”
Crane’s mind raced. He wanted to tell Salamone that Nick had diverted some money from a robbery, or a piece of jewelry, but he knew Salamone would want to know which piece, and he couldn’t remember the pieces he had given Salamone to sell last month. He could see Salamone’s face darkening. Time was going by, and then gone. “I wanted his girlfriend.”
Salamone kept his eyes on Crane as he said, “You can go back to the car and wait for me.” Pistore and Cantorese went down the stairs. It seemed to take a long time. When he heard the door downstairs close, Salamone said, “So where is the girlfriend? Did you get her?”
“Not exactly. Not yet.”
“Why not? Did she get you to kill him and then change her mind about you?”
“No,” said Crane. “It’s not like that. She didn’t know about it. I never told her I was going to do it. I never even told her I wanted her.”
Salamone rested his elbow on Crane’s desk and leaned his chin on the palm of his hand. “So how is she supposed to know?”
“I plan to tell her,” he said. “I just think I need to give her some time.”
“For what?”
“To get used to the fact that Nick is dead.”
“Is she a little slow or something? I read in the paper that she was right there when the bullet went through the bastard’s head. The blood must have sprayed the walls.”
“She just thinks of me as a friend—somebody she knew through Nick, who has been nice to her since he died. She isn’t ready to start dating again.”
Salamone rolled his eyes. “If people waited until they were ready for things, not a goddamn thing would ever happen. Things get sprung on them, and they either keep up or get trampled. You’d better move quick, or somebody else is going to get in there ahead of you. Right now she’s alone and she’s going to be receptive. Make sure it’s to you.”
“You think so?”
“Show me a guy who waits around until she’s all ready, and I’ll show you a guy who’s going to be on the guest list for her wedding—way at the back with the groom’s third cousins.”
“I’m going to have to think about it.”
“Here’s a start. She’s probably short on money. Nick won’t be bringing any pay home this month. Even if you didn’t give a shit about her you should be generous to her just because he worked for you. That will keep the other guys on your crew thinking you take care of your people. If you don’t care about them, they won’t care about you. And women can’t help loving money, just the way men do. Giving her money when she’s broke is an easy way to show her you’re desirable. That’s better than being hung like a horse, and even if you are, the money is a lot easier to show without risking embarrassment.”
“I guess you’re right. I’ll do it today. I’ll pay her rent, and give her some spending money.”
“A good start,” said Salamone. He stared at Crane for a few seconds, and then sighed. “I’m afraid there’s one more thing we have to talk about.”
“What’s that?”
“I heard that guys were checking themselves into the Erie County jail to wait for this Indian. You know anything about that?”
“Well, I did ask my guys if they knew a couple of friends we could pay to make sure the Indian didn’t get off. They got four of them to get arrested for small things—probation violation, domestic abuse, that kind of thing.”
Salamone stared at him, and he could feel the eyes were seeing through his skin and into his innards. “You know that I like you, Danny,” he said. “Not personally, of course. That’s a different thing, and I have a very big family for that. But you’re a good earner. Every month, I get a shipment from you that’s full of good things to resell, and I get an honest percentage of the storage business. You’ve made me a lot of money, and I haven’t had to spend much time worrying that you’ll do something stupid and put me in danger.”
Crane said, “I try to be smart.”
“I’ve appreciated that. You run your business right. No outsiders who aren’t in on things and might ask questions, and not much chance of strangers noticing what you do. You do your own books and pay taxes and all that. We could go on forever and die rich old men. You want that, right?”
“Yes,” Crane said. “That’s exactly what I want.”
“That’s the way to be,” said Salamone. “When this business gets big enough and you’ve diversified your investments and set aside money for trouble, you could stop doing burglaries and just collect your rent. So here we are. And this is what gets me. You’re like forty years old, and I’ve got to explain the way the world works, and our place in it.”
“You don’t really,” said Crane. “I don’t need—”
“Yes you do,” Salamone snapped. “So here it is. You know that the little bit of power I have on this earth isn’t from me, or from the handful of guys like Pistore and Cantorese who work for me. It comes from people up above me, the people I work for. Most of the power that matters belongs to Mr. Malconi.”
“I know who he is,” said Crane.
“See, that’s exactly my point. You do, and you don’t. He’s the guy you’ve seen in the papers. The don, the capo, the boss of the Arm. They keep showing that one picture of him from his last indictment twenty years ago, outside the courthouse, with the two FBI guys holding his arms. The wind blew his hair straight up, so he looks like an old man with a porcupine sitting on his head. That’s who you know, but that’s not him.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Mr. Malconi is the man who is at the top of the pyramid. Below him are a couple of underbosses, and then there are about a hundred guys just like me, who have a few businesses that he allows to operate, and that he protects. We can each pay ten or twenty guys like Pistore and Cantorese, and we send a percentage of our profits up the line to Mr. Malconi. I send him a part of what you give me, for instance. Once in a great while, Mr. Malconi will pass down an order to those hundred guys like me, and we each pass down the order to our ten best guys, so in an hour or two, there are a thousand guys following that order. If the order was about trouble, he would also call the bosses of nearby places—Rochester, Cleveland, Toronto, or Pittsburgh, or even Boston or New York.”
“I guess what I meant before was that I don’t know why you’re telling me this,” said Crane.
“To help you,” said Salamone. “I don’t ever want to drive up to this place and find a hundred-gallon drum with two hundred pounds of unidentifiable goo in it that used to be you. Am I getting through to you?”
Crane was wide-eyed. “Have I done something that would m
ake him want me dead?”
“I sincerely hope not. What I’m trying to do is explain to you some things that I had assumed you had learned. You’re a good businessman and a competent burglar. Those are really good things to be, both at once. What you’re not is un uomo duro, a hard guy. It’s not what you’ve done, and you weren’t brought up to it. You should be glad, and stay away from that stuff. Know your place in the universe, and accept it.”
Crane was sweating, and his mouth was dry. “Are you saying I shouldn’t have killed Nick Bauermeister?”
“You wanted the girl, and so you thought with your dick instead of your brain. You’re human. All I’m saying is that you should have gone about it the right way. If I were in that situation, I wouldn’t just go out at night with a rifle, shoot him, and expect to forget it. I wouldn’t do it and then tell Mr. Malconi, ‘By the way, I killed a guy on my crew.’ I would go to Mr. Malconi first, explain my problem, and ask his permission to kill the guy. That way, I keep Mr. Malconi convinced I’m not suddenly becoming a crazy, unreliable man. I give Mr. Malconi a chance to make sure that he, and anybody he’s worried about, has an alibi, and can’t be connected to it through me. It also gives him a chance to make sure I don’t get in the way of anything else his people are doing. Or, if I’m really lucky, he might say, ‘This Salamone is a good man, but he’s no killer. I’ll tell him to sit tight, and I’ll have somebody else do it—somebody who’s used to doing that kind of thing and isn’t going to screw up and get us all in trouble.’”
“Mr. Malconi wouldn’t have done that for me,” said Crane. “He doesn’t even know I exist.”
Salamone looked at Crane again. His face seemed to express simple curiosity, as though he were seeing a rare creature for the first time. “You’re not getting this. You killed somebody, which is the kind of behavior that causes trouble, gets you noticed, and poses a risk to everybody who deals with you. I’m letting that slide because it’s love, and I’m a sucker for that. But now you want to kill another person, this Indian. Call it off.”