Murder by Candlelight

by John Stockmyer

  Z's plan -- at first a desperate one aimed only at escape -- had begun to develop in interesting ways, ideas sometimes coming from nowhere.

  If this worked right ... it might solve a couple of problems.

  "You think tonight was the first time I made you?" Z started, sensing the man was awake enough to understand. "Outside my apartment? No way."

  Though the crook was in obvious pain, Z was certain he was listening. "As for Johnny Dosso, he's dead. Yeah. Me. When I found you were trailing me, I got in touch with certain persons who put me in contact with Mr. Minghetti. Sure. I knew where John was. I just didn't know Mr. Minghetti wanted him. So, one of the times you weren't 'back of me' -- off somewhere on the crapper -- I squared things by bopping John myself. I'm in the clear. You? Mr. Minghetti's not pleased with you. Said you couldn't get the job done. Mr. Minghetti may even have gotten the idea you and Dosso were a team. So, after proving my reliability, he hired me to make sure you'd have a little accident." It was Z's turn to grin. "Get up!"

  Z pulled out the gun. Pointed it at the thug.

  With the same struggle Z had -- except more so since the mobster was flat on the floor, his feet and knees tied -- the hood finally did as he was told, getting first to his knees, then to his feet. (At least Z didn't have to listen to the "crime lord's" groans, the gag doing its job.)

  Placing the stool under the spot where the rope went over the beam, getting behind the hood, pocketing the gun, Z boosted the thug up so he stood on the shaky seat. Pulling the rope tight, Z tied off the end around the frame of the garage door rail.

  To complete the procedure, Z picked up the remaining piece of cord; fastened one end to the bottom of the nearest leg of the stool, the other end snubbed up around the inside handle of the closed garage door.

  "Two things could happen," Z said, patiently explaining. "Either you go to sleep and fall off. Or somebody opens the garage door, the opening door jerking the stool out from under you. Since you're some kind of cowboy, I'd 'a liked to put the rope around a limb, and you on a horse, but this will have to do. So, while I got the chance, let me just say, a great big so-long from Mr. Minghetti."

  Z's work completed, first wiping off his prints, Z tossed the empty gun on the floor near the knife and bullets, after that retreating through the house, exiting past the alarms -- which the thug hadn't bothered to reset -- into what was left of the night, grateful to be alive, satisfied with the night's work.

  Driving the Cavalier through a pre-dawn drizzle, splashing his way out of the lavish sub-division, Z thought about the possibilities. If the man hanged, Z wouldn't be too unhappy, though that wasn't the plan. Since Z had been careful to arrange the "hanging" on the girl's side of the garage, the idea was for the girlfriend to return to the house later that night. Pushing the button on her electric garage door opener, the opening door would jerk the stool out from under the punk, dangling him there before her eyes, kicking and strangling. (Z hadn't arranged enough of a fall to snap the man's bull neck.)

  At that point, either of two things might happen. If the hood had been a son-of-a-bitch to his girl, she might just push the garage door button again, driving off peacefully, leaving her abusive boyfriend to croak. Or, she might rush inside, setting up the seat, getting his feet on it so he could stand and take the pressure off his neck.

  With the same knife Z used to do his "rope tricks," she would then cut the bully boy loose, the guy not so injured he wouldn't retrieve and reload his gun.

  Z hoped the second of those two possibilities happened ... because, thinking this action out carefully, Z's long-range plans for the gunsel had not yet been realized!

  * * * * *

  Chapter 17

  By the time Z got home, the rain had stopped, the night too far gone for Z to attempt sleep. Anyway, who could sleep with the sweat of fear still oozing from his pores?

  The first order of business was to run a quiet bath.

  Feeling better after soaking his weary body for twenty minutes, Z flopped down on his unmade bed, planning only to rest his eyes for an hour before the sun came up.

  To find himself fighting to wake up from another in the "horrible nightmare" series. This time, Z was in the desert, faceless men on all-terrain vehicles chasing him, his feet sinking in the burning sand. Blazing yellow dunes, like giant piles of quicksand, lay in wait to suck him under. He was running, running, the machines roaring at his back, gaining on him, beginning to flank him, to get ahead of him. His only salvation was to top a rise of hard-packed sand. Except that the closer he dragged his weary body toward the top, the hotter he became. Finally, the machine-men almost running him down, Z was at the top ... only to find he'd fallen into the sun, his clothes catching fire, his face melting! ...

  And he was awake. Basted in sweat. His skin, feverish.

  Where did these crazy dreams come from??

  The morning sun blasting in the bedroom window, Z covered his eyes until he could adjust to the punishment of the light, then choked down more than his usual handful of aspirin in a desperate attempt to reduce his head size.

  Going to the bathroom for water to wash down the aspirin burn, he made the mistake of glancing at himself in the lavatory mirror, it always a shock to see his face before gravity drained the puffiness from his eyes. Today, he looked worse than usual, his skin discolored, lumpy. To complete the picture, his head hurt like the bang of a migraine drum, the cause of the pain, a touchy lump on the back of his skull.

  Leaning forward, Z saw he'd grown a wino's broken-veined nose and a brawler's swollen eye -- his face, the perfect answer to a child's question about why, after a prize fight, boxers wore sunglasses to interviews.

  Z could only hope his general state of health was better than he looked: his experience, that people who appeared to be at death's door, usually were.

  It was not -- emphasize not -- going to be a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

  Shaved, teeth brushed -- gently -- putting on shoes, shirt, and slacks, Z shuffled into the living room to get a fire going and the air conditioners chugging.

  Now fully awake -- a state that made Z feel even worse -- his only interest was retrieving the morning paper from the front lawn.

  Going outside and along the side of the old house -- enough rain fall last night to make a jungle of the returning heat -- Z picked up his paper (the other tenants' papers, long gone.)

  Returning to his cooling apartment to sit at the table, Z shucked the Star from its plastic wrapper to find the front page shouting: health care, Korea, mayhem in midtown, and K.C. politicians vilifying one another. The usual.

  The inside features were no better: in the order of their importance, the comics, the daily horoscope, and advice from Billy Graham.

  Rethinking his disappointment, Z reflected that the paper was probably "put to bed" around three in the morning: too early to include dark deeds done in the dead of night, specifically, too early to include someone found tied up and hanged.

  Willing to try an even more doubtful source of information, Z turned on the nineteen-inch black-and-white on the front room lamp table, switching channels to the station that broadcast local news at eleven-thirty. Only to hear a half hour of nothing but Missouri gossip. (On that station, even the national news was given a local slant. Z fully expected a report one day saying: "A Kansas City man was only three streets away when terrorists blew up the White House. Interview at ten."

  Giving up his knowledge quest, Z fixed brunch, irritated to be scraping out the last of the peanut butter to make his sandwich. Got himself a Diet Coke.

  It was only after he'd gummed down his peanut butter and jelly -- every chew a painful stretch of face and a thump of headache -- that he remembered about the bug. (Lack of quality sleep was becoming more than an annoyance.)

  Wearily plopping himself on the butt-sprung divan, Z started by unscrewing the mouthpiece on the phone's receiver; immediately located the miniaturized electronic device the punk had put inside.

  Removing th
e listening device, going to the kitchen, Z took delight in smashing the little gizmo with the handle of a tableware knife, Z cleaning up by scraping the even tinier bits and pieces off the counter and sprinkling them in the fireplace.

  Discovering the transmitter motivated Z to search the rest of the apartment for a second bug -- a time-consuming, head-pounding process.

  But a hunt that produced nothing. The thug -- and Z still didn't know the crook's name -- was so cocky about breaking in without being caught, he thought that one mike was all he'd need.

  What was really dumb -- knowing that someone had searched his apartment -- was for Z to have overlooked the possibility of a thug-bug. Right then and there, Z took a solemn pledge to pay more attention to guys who had it in for him!

  Z's mind skittering like a model T on a rutted road, Z was bounced back to wondering what the crook had planned for Z. Surely, not to shoot Z in the garage. The hoodlum's scheme was probably to knock Z out again, then drive Z somewhere quiet; after taking Z's car keys, drill him. Leave the body, run Z's car off somewhere, then call a cab to take the mobster home. When word of the hit was passed around, wait to see if Johnny D. crawled out of the woodwork.

  It could easily have happened that way -- but didn't -- leaving Z alive for sweaty speculation about what might very well have been the end of him.

  Still tired, still shaky, Z decided to stay away from the office; instead, to get some rest on the small sofa -- rest, he'd heard, nearly as good for you as sleep. (Z hoped so, because he was thinking seriously about giving up sleep permanently, as little sleep as he got between bad dreams.) But found he couldn't relax on the cramped divan. Nor could he get comfortable when he tried to go back to bed.

  Two o'clock.

  Deciding that any activity was better than sitting around mumbling to himself, Z drove the Cavalier to the IGA. Bought peanut butter, of course. And this time, a loaf of whole wheat bread. (As bad as he was feeling, Z thought it would be a good idea to eat healthy for a change.) Added Diet Coke, paper plates, and paper napkins.

  Just the staples.

  Was amazed to discover that being out in the heat had made him feel better. Worrying about grocery costs while putting away his purchases, Z thought, again, of Harry Grimes; leading Z to persuade himself he'd better check his answering machine, just in case Harry, hearing Z was trying to contact him, might have left a message.

  All of the above accounting for why Z showed up at his office after all, arriving at four o'clock (about the time he generally left it.) Only to have his hunch about Harry calling, disproved.

  Standing by his "secretary's" desk, tempted to swear, the knock on the door startled him. (After all, it could be the toasted hoodlum on the loose. Or even more deadly -- Millie the tax preparer.)

  Creeping to the door, Z put his ear to the hollow panel. Listened ... for what? The thug lighting another cigarette? The click of a thumbed-back hammer? Reasoning that it was unlikely the racketeer would come into the building -- at the same time wanting to exercise caution -- Z slowly rotated the doorknob, easing the door open a crack to peek through the slit, seeing ... just enough to tell that the person out there was shorter that last night's punk.

  Relieved, Z opened the door all the way, to find ... Johnny Dosso.

  A shocker!

  As much because Johnny D. had never been to Z's office as because John was supposed to be in hiding.

  Moreover, not the Johnny who Z had dropped off at the Happy Hollow. Standing before him was the real John, dressed in sartorial splendor: white silk shirt cuffed with diamond links, monogrammed pocket with genuine pearl buttons, fawn-colored meringue wool slacks with a knife-edged crease, and mirrored finish dark bronze shoes.

  "I see you're feelin' secure. You don't even have your blackjack out to bust in your friends' heads." John was in the best of spirits. "Well, you goin'a ask me in?"

  "Sure."

  Z stepped aside, John strutting in like the fat peacock he was.

  "What a shitty hole-in-the-wall you got here," Johnny said, looking around with disdain. "Excuse me!" he corrected himself, bending forward to peer through the arch into Z's part of the office. "What a shitty two-hole-in-the-wall you got here."

  The formalities over, Z led the way into the other "hole," waving John to the client chair, Z sitting behind the moldering desk. This was Z's office -- no matter how "shitty."

  "So, why don't you come to work for me?" John asked, something he did periodically. "You get easy duty."

  Herding hookers with my fists, Z reminded himself.

  "Hell, we even got major medical."

  Not much good, Z thought cynically, for healing bullets to the brain.

  "Now I know what you're thinkin'. I sort of hinted that I'd retired. But what I meant was, I needed a little vacation, is all."

  "Oh?" Not many people "vacationed" at the Happy Hollow.

  "Sure. I'm too important to the organization to retire permanent." John tried to cross his legs; gave it up because he was too fat to be comfortable that way.

  John had something to say; would get around to saying it sooner or later.

  "Sure, there was that little dust-up I had. But that was nothing. Not that I don't appreciate what you did for me."

  "That was nothing?"

  "Well, a little more than nothing. But all's swell that ends swell, if you get my meaning." John had never been much of a scholar, Shakespearean or otherwise. "When I received the news from my contacts in the organization -- I got out of that flophouse, pronto. First, going back to my home for a decent change of clothes. Which reminds me, don't worry. I didn't torch your rags. I got 'em in my car. In the trunk where they don't smell up the leather interior. Didn't bring 'em in 'cause I wasn't sure you were here. I didn't call first, 'cause I wanted to come by in person to see how you were makin' out.

  "Also to say a word of thanks -- though I was never in danger, no matter how you might have taken what I said about me being followed. But we been friends for a long time, you and me. And you did your best by me, such as it was. And Johnny Dosso don't forget his friends. Never!"

  Clearly, it was hard for John to admit, even to himself, he'd needed Z's help. Which was OK with Z.

  "Then, too, it occurred to me you might have had your hand in what happened that changed the ... situation." John drummed the fingers of both hands on the sides of his chair. Drew back his upper lip in another, canine-exposing, grin. "Me and you both know that you got a way of gettin' yourself in the middle of things. Like a special meddling talent. Like that. So I was wonderin' ....."

  "What?"

  "Wonderin' if you might have had something to do with a certain something I heard about a lowlife name of Marco Minghetti."

  "No."

  "Yeah?"

  "No."

  "I wasn't meanin' personally. I know that. But I was a long time in that sewer of a hotel -- and I wouldn't send one of my girls to a place like that, to say nothing of me going there in person. Like I was sayin', I had awhile to do some considering. And I got to thinking about how Minghetti's pistol Pete would go about bird-dogging me. Now, with me stashed away, and you bein' a friend of mine, I got to figure the asshole would come after you." John frowned.

  "Much as I don't like him, Cristoforo's a smart boy."

  "Cristoforo?"

  "Yeah. What you call in English, Christopher. That's what he calls himself. Christopher Columbus -- like he owns this new world -- get it?"

  "Yeah."

  "He don't call himself Cristoforo Columbo. Just Cristoforo. Like he's so famous he's only got one name. Like you say Barbra, and you know right away it's Barbra Streisand." Unless you think Barbara Walters, Z countered to himself. "Or Cher or Madonna. Like that. Or Janis Joplin." Though John had wandered off the mental track, Z knew what he meant. Nodded.

  "This Cristoforo's a little shit, but he's not stupid. So, I say to myself, what would a not-so-dumb kiss-ass like Cristoforo do, given the task Minghetti gave him?

  "I got to figure
he tries to tie you to me. And knowing how much you like your privacy, when I made a call this morning and heard what I heard, I got to figure that you maybe had a hand in turning Cristoforo around."

  "Call?"

  "Yeah. Like I keep saying, I got friends in the organization. Good friends." None John could count on when in big trouble, Z thought.

  "I made this call and what do you know? I find that, overnight, things had changed in my favor. Now, I'm not so stupid in my old age that I believe everything I hear over the phone, particularly when somebody's lookin' for me. But then I make a couple more contacts and find it's true."

  "What?"

  "That Mr. Big Shot Marco Minghetti got himself offed last night. The way I hear it is he's got this estate south of Leawood, but on the Missouri side of State Line. Got all kind of protection. Guards on the complex. Got electric gates, fences protecting his grounds. All kind of security. But somebody gets Minghetti to open up. Had to have been somebody near and dear.

  "Minghetti comes to the door all happy. And gets whacked. First, shot a bunch of places you don't even want to think about. Then gut-shot and left to die all over the front hall.

  "I also hear that the cops don't got a clue who did it. But then, the cops don't never know shit." John shrugged in apology for having stated what was common knowledge.

  "The inside guess is that some young punk who worked for Minghetti is the one who did it. Name being whispered around is this same Cristoforo. Had to be pretty mad to have hit Minghetti like that. 'Cause that's not the way it's done in the majors. Too public, for one thing. Got to be done through the proper channels, like in any other modern organization." John shrugged, not able to keep from grinning like a wolf.

  "So, by this time, the punk had better be in the fuckin' Amazon, fuckin' some of them headhunter native girls, he havin' no place left to hide. You don't offend guys that high up and then stick your nose in no civilized places."

  John lowered his voice. "It now comes out that this Minghetti -- so recently deceased the blood's not yet dry -- had failed to get proper authority to meddle with me. So, all the way around, everybody is pleased. The bad guys are dead or on the run. The cops are scratching their dicks in amazement, figurin' that some nigger come south to rob, instead, tragically murdering an upstanding member of the community like Mr. Marco Minghetti." John snorted merrily.