“How much?” Tommy asked. “I got some dough saved, maybe I could—”
“Quarter of a million,” Declan said. “And I need it quick. The window on this is closing as we speak. I should have moved on this long ago, but I’ve been distracted.”
“Jeez, quarter mil, huh?” Tommy said. “Did you try Frankie?”
“It’s a long story, but Frankie’s not an option,” Declan said. “I wish I could tell you more.”
“Jeez, I don’t know. Swimming with the sharks is a bad idea—you don’t pay, they send someone to rearrange your anatomy. You miss again and they put you in the lake. You sure you want to get hooked up with this bunch?” Tommy asked.
“You did.”
“Yeah, and I question the decision every day,” Tommy said with a laugh.
“Can you set up a meet with Fat Sal?” Declan asked. “Please, for old time’s sake.” Declan hated having to play the friendship card, but he had no other option. If he was going to propose to Mary Ann—especially with her having an eight-year-old kid—he had to have money. “I really need this, Tom. It’s important.”
“Orlando?” Fat Sal said. “I got a cousin down there. I went once, never again. There’s not a damn thing there—a train, a couple of lakes, a few retired Jews.”
“That’s the point,” Declan said in frustration. “The people who are buying up the land picked Orlando for just that reason. Land is dirt cheap right now, but once the word gets out—”
“Who you say the company is again? The one doing all the buying?” Chuckie Bags asked from the other side of the room.
“I didn’t,” Declan said.
“I wouldn’t trust this spud-nuts with twenty bucks,” Phil Spilatro said.
“How much you say?” Fat Sal asked. “Two-fifty large?”
“Three hundred would be better,” Declan said, “but a quarter of a million would probably do.”
Fat Sal remained silent for what seemed like a full minute, then said, “Let’s say I gives you the scratch. How much profit could I expect, and how long till I get my money back?”
“You’ll get at least triple your investment, but you’ve got to be patient,” Declan said. “Could take a year, maybe eighteen months to complete the transaction.”
“You’re not really considering this, are you, Sal?” Phil snapped.
“Phil’s right,” Chuckie Bags said. “Somethin’ just feels off about this, too many variables.”
“What do you know from variables, Chuck?” Tommy said. Then to Fat Sal, “If Declan says he’ll pay you back, Boss, he’ll pay you back. I’d trust this guy with my life—I have trusted him with my life—and he’s always made good.”
Fat Sal went quiet again and then said, “Tell me the name of the company, or no deal.”
“I’d like to, but I can’t do it,” Declan said.
“Then the answer is no,” Fat Sal said.
“Orlando?” Tommy asked when they got outside. “Christ, you’d have been better off telling him you wanted to buy land on the moon.”
Declan was tempted to tell Fat Sal who the company was but knew he couldn’t. Once Fat Sal knew the buyer was Disney, there would be no need to keep Declan as part of the deal.
The only thing left was Plan B.
Of course, Plan B could put him in prison for a long, long time. And it could possibly get him killed. But if he was to get a financial foothold in this world, Declan knew he’d have to take the chance. Mary Ann was worth the risk.
“I need one more favor, Tom,” Declan said. “I need you to get me a gun.”
Chapter Twelve
Richmond, Virginia
July 12, 2010
“Would it bother you if I asked how you became blind?” Robyn asked after the jet left the ground.
“Not at all,” Gerylyn Stoller said as a flight attendant set bottled waters on the table. “When I was eleven I was diagnosed with Stargardt disease, a form of juvenile macular degeneration. I went from 20/20 vision to 20/200 by the time I was sixteen. For all intents and purposes, I had become legally blind by my senior prom, which I attended with a boy I’d never met before that evening. You could say it was a blind date.”
“I’m sorry,” Robyn said. “That must have been horrible for you.”
“Horrible? Oh, no,” Stoller said. “I’ve always considered my blindness to be little more than an inconvenience. That’s why, against the advice of everyone, I enrolled at the University of Richmond in 1957. One year later, I met my husband, Raymond.”
“I didn’t realize you were married,” Koda said. “Will we get to meet him when we get to Richmond?”
“That’s unlikely, Koda,” Stoller said. “Raymond is no longer with us, in the living sense that is.”
Koda and Robyn stayed silent, neither of them knowing exactly what to say.
“But I am glad you asked. Ray played an important role in how I became involved in the study of the paranormal, so I need to tell you how we met. Besides, I don’t get to talk about him as often as I’d like.”
“Yes, we’d love to hear it,” Robyn said.
Stoller took a sip from her bottle of water and set it back down on the table. “It was toward the end of my sophomore year, in early spring when the cherry blossoms are blooming, emitting the most wonderful fragrance, which to a blind person is all the more wonderful. This was during the height of the civil rights movement, when tensions were high and it seemed there was a rally on campus just about every weekend.
“Raymond was a speaker at one of the civil rights rallies, and I was instantly drawn to him—to everything he said and how he said it—with such passion and conviction. You might say it was love at first sound.”
Robyn and Koda laughed, impressed with the woman’s willingness to joke about her disability and put them at ease.
“And though it was fairly forward of me, I asked a friend to introduce us,” Stoller said. “Well, as you’ve probably already suspected—”
“—the two of you fell madly in love,” Robyn said, finishing Stoller’s sentence.
“Yes,” Stoller said, a slight smile forming on her lips at the memory. “Unfortunately, things did not go so well when I brought Raymond home to meet my parents.”
“What happened?” Koda said.
“After we arrived, my mother took me down the hall and asked me why I hadn’t warned her.”
“Warned them about what?” Robyn asked.
“That he was black,” Stoller said.
“Oh,” Koda said.
“But how could I have?” she continued. “I didn’t have the slightest idea myself until that very moment.”
“Oh, my God,” Robyn said. “You mean Raymond hadn’t told you that—?”
“No,” Stoller said, shaking her head. “Raymond hadn’t said a word. He assumed I knew, that one of my friends had already said something or that his color should have been obvious based on the speeches he’d been giving. And, in retrospect, I should have known. I simply didn’t care.”
“So, what happened?”
“My mother was more open to the idea,” Stoller said. “But my father? His daughter being with a black man? It was out of the question. He demanded I stop seeing Raymond immediately, and, in our house, my father’s word was final. So I moved out.”
“And you got married,” Koda said.
“Yes, we got married,” Stoller said. “Two young people, very happy and very much in love. And then, in February of 1960, the worst thing that has ever happened to me took place. Raymond was killed.”
“Oh, my God,” Robyn said.
“Ray was with a friend named Malcolm Carpenter, who’d come down from Falls Church, Virginia, to take pictures of protesters in Richmond. Malcolm was a gifted photographer, one of those people who always managed to be in the right place at the right time to get a shot. A number of his photos were used by the UPI wire service, and Raymond really looked up to Malcolm.
“Raymond insisted I come with them and, sure enough, Mal
colm got the photograph that would change his life, ruin mine, and end Raymond’s.”
Stoller paused and found the bottle of water, carefully taking another sip.
“What was the picture of?” Robyn asked.
“Malcolm’s photograph? It was of Ruth Nelson Tinsley, who’d been involved in a sit-in with a group of students outside Thalhimers department store. When police told the group to move along, Ruth refused, and she was arrested. Malcolm took a number of photos that day, but it was the photo of Ruth that would end up in Life magazine—of the elderly woman being dragged across Broad Street by two police officers in her heavy winter coat, holding a shopping bag, her feet dangling on the pavement behind her.
“That’s horrible,” Robyn said. “But how did—?”
“How did the photo kill Raymond?” Stoller asked. “It didn’t, of course, not directly. But as Malcolm was snapping the picture, Raymond’s anger got the better of him. One second he was holding my arm, the next second he let go and charged at the police. I couldn’t see any of what was happening, and I just stood there, helpless, calling his name. Then I heard him call back to me. I made my way toward his voice and finally found him, sitting on a bus bench.
“I sat down next to Raymond and, as he usually did, he took my hand in his. Immediately I knew something was wrong because of how cold his hand felt. I asked him if he was okay, and he didn’t answer. I turned toward him, reached my hand out and touched his head to find it was covered in blood.”
“Had he been shot?” Koda asked.
“No, he’d been struck in the head with a police baton,” Stoller said. “He bled to death on the bus bench as I held him in my arms. I screamed as loud as I could, but in the chaos no one heard me. No one ever came.”
Chapter Thirteen
Crimson Cove, Oregon
Christmas Day, 1937
Claudia woke at the crack of dawn. On any other day, she would have been out of commission till noon, or until Phil stumbled in and began poking her in the ribs to get her attention.
But today was Christmas.
Claudia jumped out of bed, showered, and went straight to the kitchen and got to work. After all, if this was going to be their first Christmas together as a family—she, Ulrich and little Phil—she needed it to be perfect.
And that meant lots of cooking.
The Sicilian tradition involves elaborate servings of twelve different kinds of fish beginning at sundown on Christmas Eve and continuing for days until everything had been eaten or the last family member finally left. But, since Claudia had no idea if Ulrich even liked fish, she opted to make a goose, gravy, potatoes, vegetables, pudding, and a peach cobbler. And, in case it turned out Ulrich didn’t like goose, she decided to cook a turkey with bread stuffing, too.
None of it was as maddening, however, as trying to find the ingredients for the Lammbraten in Gruner Sosse Ulrich had asked her to make. It was something his mother used to make the family every Christmas when he was a child in Berlin, and Claudia had said yes without thinking.
Finding the boneless lamb shoulder and the garlic cloves, parsley, celery, yellow onion, carrots—and the various spices involved—was not difficult. But finding watercress, spicy mustard, and tarragon was impossible in Crimson Cove. As charming as the seaside hamlet could be in some regards, Crimson Cove could just as easily have been on the moon when it came to other things.
In the end, she gave up and left the final ingredients out. Love had its limits—and it would simply have to do.
Then, just to make sure Ulrich knew how much she loved him, Claudia made an apple pie from scratch and sliced an entire block of cheddar cheese, so Ulrich could have it just the way he liked it.
When there was nothing else to do, Claudia poured herself a glass of white wine and tried to relax. But as the day wore on, the happy optimism she felt gave way and a feeling of uncertainty started to creep in.
Why was it taking so long to kill this bitch? Claudia kept asking herself. Unfortunately, the more she asked herself the question, the more obvious the answer became:
Ulrich didn’t really want her dead.
Don’t think that, Claudia told herself. Ulrich loves you, and we’re all going to be together as a family, the three of us. That’s all there was to it.
At noon Claudia began pacing…
At two she began chewing her nails…
At four there were no nails left to chew…
At six-thirty the turkey was dry, Phil was cranky, and Claudia opened another bottle of Chardonnay, shifting from slightly steamed to out-of-her-mind livid with rage.
Where was Ulrich? Why hadn’t he at least called her?
Claudia turned off the oven, locked Phil in his room, and grabbed the keys to her car.
There was no getting a sitter on Christmas Day—not in this dinky little shithole of a town—and she wasn’t about to ask anyone in her family to watch him. No one was to know what was happening between her and Ulrich—least of all her father, The Owl—especially until Onyx was out of the picture.
Which was starting to feel like never.
Claudia switched off the lights, locked the front door behind her, and got in the car. She was going to the Crimson Cove lighthouse to find out what in the hell was going on.
Chapter Fourteen
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
July 22, 1963
The Vegas odds makers had Sonny Liston as a strong, 4-1 favorite over Floyd Patterson. But it didn’t really matter who the favorite was. People were going to bet heavy.
Which is where Plan B came in.
After being turned down for the loan by Fat Sal, Declan spent much of the next thirty days casing The Outfit’s most active bookie operations—in particular, how, when, and where the money was moved after sporting events.
Declan had no interest in hitting a single bookie, which might net him a few grand at best. He wanted the cash from all of them. He needed to hit the central location where the cash from hundreds of bookies would be taken and counted—which was a closely guarded secret. But Declan had a pretty good idea how to figure it out.
The first piece of the puzzle was Phil Spilatro’s nickname, Milwaukee Phil. Phil had gotten Mary Ann pregnant in Milwaukee, so it was reasonable to assume Phil’s responsibilities included trips up there from Chicago—probably to pick up money, most likely from bookies.
The second piece of the puzzle was provided by Mary Ann, who’d mentioned the name of the place where she’d met Phil near the Marquette University campus.
Giuseppe’s.
It only took a few trips up north to confirm what he’d already suspected—Phil Spilatro was a regular at Giuseppe’s, stopping in for drinks two nights each week after picking up the gambling receipts from area bookies.
Better still, Phil was sloppy, taking no precautions to avoid being followed. Once he’d made his rounds and stopped to drink, he drove the cash down to the central location in Chicago.
The Purple Pig.
Declan watched the fight on closed-circuit TV in a bar two blocks from Giuseppe’s until Sonny Liston knocked down Floyd Patterson for the third and final time at 2:10 in the first round. Then Declan went to the men’s room, washed his face and hands, and loaded the gun Tommy had gotten for him. Now all he had to do was walk down the street and wait for Phil to show up.
Declan stood in the darkened doorway of a dry cleaning business across the street from Giuseppe’s, which provided a clear view of the bar and the parking lot.
At 11:05 p.m., Phil pulled his red Chevy Bel Air into Giuseppe’s parking lot and turned off the headlights.
Declan waited until Phil went in and took his regular seat at the bar.
Forty-five minutes later, Phil Spilatro climbed behind the wheel of the Bel Air and began the ninety-mile drive south down Interstate 94 to Chicago.
Chicago, Illinois
Phil Spilatro pulled into the alley behind The Purple Pig, parked his car just as he had hundreds of times before, and got out. He wal
ked to the trunk—glanced to the left, then right—and turned the key and opened the trunk.
Phil found himself looking down the barrel of the gun.
“What the—?”
“Put your hands up and take two steps back,” Declan said, a black ski mask covering his face, holding the gun in Phil’s face.
“You’re making a big mistake. Do you have any idea—?”
“Shut up and step back,” Declan said, climbing out of the cramped trunk and letting the blood work its way back into his legs. “If you do exactly as I say, you might live to see the Liston-Patterson rematch. Now, turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
Phil reluctantly did as he was told. Declan pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and slapped them on Phil’s wrists, squeezing them tightly. “Okay, you got me,” Phil said. “Just take the money and go.”
“If all I wanted were the night’s receipts from Milwaukee, I would have hit you in the parking lot at Giuseppe’s.”
The full gravity of the situation finally hit Phil—this was no random robbery. This was a well-planned heist—going down on the biggest betting night in ten years.
And Phil had led the asshole right to it.
“You do this, you’re a dead man,” Phil said. “Fat Sal will never stop chasing you.”
“You might be right,” Declan said, pushing Phil toward the rear entrance of the building. “Now, knock on the door.”
Mary Ann woke to discover Declan’s side of the bed unslept in, and it wasn’t the first time.
For six months she and Declan had been inseparable, spending virtually every minute together. But lately Declan had been away more and more, sometimes all night.
Like last night.
Mary Ann wasn’t in the position to demand anything of Declan. They weren’t married. She asked him once where he’d been and he’d said only that he had business to take care of. He’d given her no reason to think he was seeing someone else.
Onyx Webb: Book Three Page 6