The video cassette was sitting on the table next to the cash. After cramming the money into a brown paper bag and then sticking in her hiding place under the stove, she picked up the video and slipped it out of the box. Walking over, she slid the cassette into the slot of the VCR and picked up the remote. The picture was black and white and centered on a long table at somebody’s house. A group of white guys were all sitting around it, talking and telling jokes. She recognized Johnny Osmand, a.k.a. Joe Orlando, only he looked a bit younger, his hair darker on top. Next to him was a greasy looking dago with some kind of dark mark on his right cheek. His hair was slicked back from his face, making it look fatter. But she could see from his look, that he was “mean-fat.” Nobody to mess with.
They continued to talk and her thumb pressed the fast-forward button. The figures did a jerky little dance as their heads and torsos bounced around. The fat guy with the birthmark got up and went to the front of the table. He began talking, using his hands a lot, like those Italian guys always do. The accelerated speed made the movements look comical. Fatso was pointing, then he went over and picked up a gym bag of some sort, with something long sticking out of it. A baseball bat. He took the bat and rested it on his shoulder, pointing again, like he was looking down the mound at a pitcher winding up with a fast ball. With a sudden jerk, the fat guy went around the table and, grabbing the bat with both hands, swung it at one of the sitting men. The guy’s head went forward and hit the table. Several other men drew guns and pointed them at the guys sitting around the one that had gotten hit. The man next to him, a small guy with light hair, got up and started to run. Some big guy in a suit stepped in front of him and shoved him back. As the smaller man did a stutter-step backward, the guy with the bat smashed him across the lower part of the back. The small guy sank to his knees, and the fat man with the bat moved forward and raised it, like he was going to swing at a pitch.
Diane was so startled that she hit the stop button on the remote, instead of play, trying to slow the tape down to normal speed. After getting the picture back, she rewound it to where he picked up the bat and turned the volume up.
“So like I was tellin’ youse,” the man said, gripping the baseball bat with both hands. “Bottom of the ninth, we’re down by two, and the tying run’s on third.” He paused and pointed. “My fucking coach is tellin’ me, ‘go for a base hit, go for a base hit’.” He raised the bat. “But I knew that sometimes you just gotta take the bat, and swing for the fucking fences.”
He ran toward the table and swung the bat in a downward arc. The sound of the wood striking the seated man’s head sounded like a pumpkin getting dropped. There were shouts and yells, the scuffling of chairs, and more urgent shouts. Some of the standing men pulled guns out of their pockets as the one guy at the table tried to bolt. When the big guy caught him and pushed him back, Fatso ran up and swung the bat into his back, with a whoomp. The man’s grunt of pain could be heard, and he sank to his knees. The one with the bat raised it and muttered a profanity. Then he let it fly. Right to the kneeling man’s right arm. There was a shriek of pain, groans, then another whack, this time to the other arm. The man on his knees stayed down, and the bat-man moved back to the table. He grabbed the hair of the first man he’d hit and lifted the bloody head. A dark gush spilled out of the mouth.
“Campo, you fucker,” he said. “You ruined my friend Johnny’s best fucking table cloth.” There were hoots of laughter from some of the men. Orlando, or Osmand, or whatever his name was, seemed to be laughing the loudest. “Oh, Vino, you’re too much,” he said.
The camera zoomed in on the bloody face, the eyes having that unfocused, glazed look of death. Vino dropped the head, letting it hit the table with a clunk, and went back over to the man he’d beaten before. He was still on his knees, all hunched over. The fat man circled him, leaning over, sneering.
“So, you son of a whore, whaddya got to say for yourself?”
“Uhhh, please, Vino,” the man stammered.
Vino slapped him across the face.
“Shaddup, you fuck. You shoulda been thinking about this when you was planning on taking me out.” He raised up the bat and swung it hard against the man’s thigh, then slammed it down on his chest as he rolled over. He lifted the bat once more, and brought it down, again to the leg area. He paused and looked around. The picture was remarkably clear. Somebody had filmed this. Diane could see the sweat popping out on the fat cheeks. Fascinated, she continued to watch.
“I might as well take my time and enjoy this, huh, Pony?” the fat guy said. He brought the bat down again and again, each time there was a solid thunking sound. Shrieks of pain were replaced by low grunts as the sounds became more sodden, then the bat-man stopped.
“Game’s over,” he said, his breath coming in short gasps. “Clean this shit outta here.”
“What about them?” one of the gunmen asked, gesturing to two men who were still being held at gunpoint.
“Them?” the fat guy said, walking over and gripping the face of one of them with his meaty hand. “If they’d been doin’ their fuckin’ jobs right, I’d be the one laying there bleedin’, instead of Campo and Pony. So, like all good bodyguards, they should follow their bosses.” He let the man’s face go. One of the guys in the suits moved forward and cuffed the doomed bodyguard on the head several times with a sap. The man sagged, and the big guy did the same to the second prisoner.
“Give those guys the Hoffa-treatment,” Vino said, still holding the bat at his waist. “But leave Campo and Volpone where they can be found. I wanna send a message with them two.”
Diane let the tape run on, but when it degenerated into talking and jokes, she let it play out on the fast-forward mode. When it was done, she rewound it and carefully took it out. A double murder captured on video, and another two killings ordered. No wonder Osmand had kept this in his safety deposit box. It was probably some sort of blackmail insurance. And now she had it. Maybe, just maybe, when you have something that somebody else really wants, they’ll pay to get it back. Perhaps they’d still be calling her Lady Di on some island somewhere after all.
10:00 A.M.
When Tony and Ray got to the booth in the restaurant, Kent Faulkner and Arlene already had their coffee cups half drained. A partially eaten English muffin sat on a dish in front of Faulkner. Ray smirked at it in disgust.
“At least you coulda waited till we got here,” he said, straining to sound good-natured.
Faulkner, who had been leaning toward Arlene, moved back into his seat slightly and smiled, showing his rows of perfectly aligned teeth.
“Sorry, we drove in together,” he said.
“Your car acting up again?” Tony asked Arlene.
“Oh, no, not really,” she said. Then added with a smile, “You know how much I hate driving into the city.”
Ray waited so Tony could slide in before him, then he took the outside seat.
“So what’s the scoop?” Tony asked.
“Well, like I told you,” Arlene said, “Fred okayed the deal, but he wants us to make sure that Osmand isn’t just yanking our chains.”
“So that means viewing the tape,” Faulkner said.
“Is that what that means?” Ray said. He felt Tony’s foot nudge him under the table. The waitress came and refilled Arlene’s and Faulkner’s cups. Then she set new cups in front of Tony and Ray and flipped open her pad.
Tony just had coffee, but Ray ordered scrambled eggs, bacon, rye toast, and orange juice.
“That’s a lot of cholesterol,” Faulkner said. “You ought to watch it, Ray.”
Ray stared at him over the rim of the coffee cup, then, as he lowered it, made a lips-only smile.
“I’m doing a lot of working out,” he said.
“Well, you still got to watch it,” Faulkner said. “That cholesterol’s a silent killer. I did a paper on it when I was in the academy. I’ll have to see if I can dig it out for you.”
“Don’t go to no special trouble,” Ray sa
id.
“It’s no problem, Ray,” Faulkner said, showing his perfect teeth again. “In fact, it was so good it was published in The Law Enforcement Bulletin. That’s a magazine they publish out of Quantico.”
Ray was about to make some smart-ass comment when Tony changed the subject.
“So how we gonna work this with the Mink?”
“Well, I left a message at Reggie’s law firm this morning for him to call me,” Arlene said. “As soon as he does, we can work out the details of how, when, and where we can view the tape.” She leaned over and smiled at Tony. “Isn’t it exciting to think about nailing Costelli? Especially for you, Tony, after all the time you’ve been after him.”
“Yeah, it would be great,” Tony said. “So you left a message? What time is Fox supposed to be in?”
“His secretary didn’t say,” she said.
“Maybe we’d better call again,” Ray said. He started to get up, then stopped. “Say, Kent, maybe you should call.”
Faulkner’s brows knitted together slightly.
“I mean,” Ray continued, “if I call they might think it’s some asshole defendant, or something. But you, I mean, they’ll probably think it’s a judge.”
Faulkner took a deep breath, then looked at Ray with a strained smile.
“All right,” he said, getting up.
As he walked out of the room, Ray who was watching him, snapped his fingers and said, “I shoulda asked him to check on that issue of The Law Enforcement Bulletin while he was going to the phone.” He got up. “I gotta go to the head.”
“I get the impression that Ray doesn’t like Kent very much,” Arlene said, a broad smile stretching across her face as they watched Ray’s short, powerful body move across the room.
“It just takes him a while sometimes,” Tony said. “I’ve known him a lotta years, and I know he wouldn’t hesitate to lay down his life to save one of us.”
She reached across and gave his hand a squeeze. It startled him. But before he could say anything, Faulkner was coming back. Arlene withdrew her hand quickly.
“Uh, I need the number,” he said.
Arlene grabbed her purse and searched through it, finally withdrawing one of Fox’s business cards. She handed it to Kent, and he went back towards the phones.
“How do you think we should handle this?” she asked.
“Well,” Tony said, “we need to make sure that the Mink is ready to cooperate. If he can deliver this tape, and I don’t think he would’ve mentioned it if he couldn’t, then we’ve got to put him on ice till we’re ready to move against Costelli. Because, make no mistake about it, once word leaks out that the Mink’s gonna flip, Vino will order him taken out.”
She shook her head. “And Osmand’s one of his closest friends, isn’t he?”
“These animals have no loyalty,” Tony said. “Especially with their own necks in the noose. The two main things we’ve got to worry about are that the Mink’s really sincere about testifying, and making sure that tape’s as solid as he says it is.”
“Like you said, it must be if he’s offering it to us.”
“Maybe,” Tony said. “But all we got at this point is a lot of promises.”
“That’s still enough to feel confident, isn’t it? I mean, what could go wrong now?”
“That’s just what my partner said to me yesterday.”
Faulkner came ambling back. As he slid into the booth, Ray appeared.
“Fox called in sick,” Faulkner said. “But I left another message with his secretary.”
“That’s kind of odd,” said Tony, leaning forward and steepling his hands. “Maybe we ought to order a surveillance team to keep tabs on his house.”
“A surveillance team on a suspect’s defense lawyer?” Faulkner said dubiously.
“Yeah,” Ray said. “What’s wrong with that? So he’s a lawyer. What? You think their shit don’t stink, or something?” Then, after flashing an ingratiating grin, “Oh, I forgot. You are a lawyer, ain’t ya?”
“That’s right, Lovisi,” Faulkner said, his face reddening slightly. “I am, and I don’t want to mess up this case.”
“Kent’s right, Ray,” Arlene said. “We’d better run it by Fred first.”
“Fine,” said Tony.
“All right,” Faulkner said. He got up again. “I’ll go make the call now.”
Arlene got up too, saying she had to pay a visit to the ladies’ room.
When they both were gone, Ray said, “Did you hear that fucker? ‘I am a lawyer.’” Then he leaned close to Tony and asked, “Well, did ya?”
“Did I what?”
“Did ya ask her out?”
Tony frowned and shook his head.
“Jesus Christ, Tony, what’s the matter with you? What do you think I stepped out for? To leave you two alone for a few minutes.”
“I told you, she’s young enough to be—”
“Ah, shit,” Ray interrupted. “I told you, that kind of stuff doesn’t matter nowadays.”
“It matters to me. Maybe I’m just old fashioned.”
“Sometimes, if you don’t take the bull by the horns, you lose out on a great opportunity.”
“And sometimes if you do,” Tony shot back, “he shakes you loose and sticks you right in your ass.”
10:15 A.M.
When Henry got back to the dig site the guys were taking a break. He noticed that the rest of the guys were acting very stand-offish toward Linc and Rick. Even Dock, the assistant foreman who’d known Linc a long time, was silent. The meat wagon had pulled up and everyone had gotten their coffee and donuts and retired to take-five and eat. Linc and Rick were sitting by themselves on some empty wooden spools of cable. Taking a deep breath, Henry walked over to them.
“How you feeling today, Rick?” Henry asked.
“Fine, sir,” Rick said, smiling.
Henry smiled back. Damn he liked this kid, in spite of everything, especially the way he laid that military-courtesy shit on. It was always “yes, sir” and “no, sir.” Too bad all his crew didn’t have those kind of manners. Henry took off his hat and wiped his brow.
“Where you been, Uncle Henry?” Linc asked, biting into his donut and washing it down with some coffee.
“Some motherfuckers danced all over the roof of my fucking truck last night,” he said. “Found it this morning and made out a police report, not that it’s gonna make any difference, but I needed it for the insurance.” He snorted and looked around. “They probably gonna raise them premiums, too, as if I don’t pay enough already.”
Linc and Rick exchanged solemn looks and Henry wondered if they might know something about the damage.
“I had to fire that Booker this morning,” Henry continued. “So watch it. Some of the other guys may be pissed, but, shit, the motherfucker showed up drunk. Again,” he added with emphasis. Then his eyes narrowed slightly as he looked them over. “You sure you feeling okay? You both look like the cat done walked all over you.”
Linc grinned and said, “Woman trouble. Uncle Henry. You know how that is.”
Henry just gave a knowing cluck accompanied by a big smile. “Yeah,” he said. “They sure gots a mind of their own, don’t they?”
11:00 A.M.
“Tina,” Fox said over the phone, “have there been any messages?”
“Mr. Fox?” she asked. “You sound terrible. Is everything okay?”
Before he answered Fox heard Germaine, who was sitting across from him listening in on the extension, snap his fingers sharply and point at him. Gumbo was right behind him.
“I told you this morning. I’m not feeling well,” Fox said. “What about my court cases? Any problems?”
“Well, none that I’m aware of,” she said. “Mr. Levitt said he would handle them when I told him you weren’t feeling well. Did you make it to the doctor?”
“Not yet,” he said quickly. “Has anyone called for me? Mr. Osmand?”
“Well, Kent Faulkner called earlier,” Tina said, reac
hing for her stack of message slips. “You did have two calls from a woman, too.”
“Who?”
“I’m not sure,” she said hesitantly. “She must be a prospective client, because we have no listing of her in the files. A Ms. Jones.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, she gave the name Cleopatra Jones,” Tina said with a snicker, then added, “She sounded black.”
“Black?” Fox said, wondering who it could be. “Did she say what she wanted?”
“Well, it’s kind of odd,” Tina said. “I got this call asking to speak to you. When I said you weren’t available, she asked when you’d be in. I asked who was calling and the person hung up. Then about thirty minutes later she called back. I’m sure it was the same woman, like I said, she sounded black. And this time she gave the name, and asked for you again.”
“Did she say what it was regarding?” Fox asked rather impatiently.
“Let’s see,” said Tina, thumbing through the stack of slips. “Oh, okay, here it is. This is kind of weird. She said she had something you might be interested in. A tape belonging to a Mr. Orlando.”
It took Fox a few seconds before he put it together, then he asked, “Did she leave a number?”
“She said she’d call back at eleven-thirty.”
Fox closed his eyes and spoke slowly into the receiver.
“Tina, this is very important. As soon as she calls back tell her I’m very interested in speaking with her. Get a number where she can be reached, and tell her I’ll call her right back. Then call me on my portable phone immediately. Do y— understand?” He fumbled over his last words.
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