Hopper House (The Jenkins Cycle Book 3)

by John L. Monk

  At last, something I could follow. “Got it. He should be more like Michael.”

  He shook his head. “Wrong. Who’s the most dangerous man in The Godfather? And no, it ain’t Michael.”

  I thought about that. “But Michael had all those people whacked.”

  Us mob guys liked to use the word whacked instead of killed.

  “That’s what everyone wants you to think. But they’re wrong—it was Tom Hagen, the fuckin’ German-Irish guy.”

  Despite the weird situation of sitting across from what I suspected was an actual mob guy—my first ever—I was intrigued. “How so?”

  Lenny's eyes seemed to dance. “What happened when that movie producer didn’t let Tom finish his dinner?”

  “Vito sent—”

  “Wrong!” Lenny said, pounding the table. “Tom handled everything. Bosses don’t have time to micromanage like that. It was Tom who had that horse’s head cut off. Now listen, lemme ask you—who really had that police chief and Sollozzo whacked?”

  I smiled. “Tom Hagen?”

  “Right!” Lenny said, and pounded the table again. “Tom gets picked up, Sollozzo tells him his foster dad, or what the fuck, is dead. Then, when Sonny wants to murder everyone, Tom’s suddenly Mahatma-fuckin’-Gandhi—until Michael says he wants to whack them. Then Tom seems to give in, and that sets everything in motion. Fucking German-Irish, I tell you. Hitler on one side, leprechauns and IRA on the other. Unpredictable. That’s why you make good killers.”

  I wondered if I should scowl like a mean killer or grin like a crazy one, but in the end I just waited.

  “So back to Ricky,” he said. “I want him to go with you on that thing I mentioned.” He held his hands up as if forestalling me. “Now listen—I know about your code, but hear me out.”

  I nodded.

  “All you trigger men,” he said, “with your codes these days. I got a guy won’t burn down houses ’less they got no animals in them. This other guy thinks he’s a wild Indian, only uses a knife. And you, with the women and children … I mean, I get that. But Ricky—he’s my nephew, see? He’s got limitations, but he’s willing to do things I can’t ask you.”

  Lenny opened a drawer, pulled out a photograph, and tossed it on the desk. It was a picture of a very beautiful woman, standing on the steps of a courthouse looking powerful in front of a sea of reporters.

  “Pretty, ain’t she?” he said.

  “Nicest picture I’ve seen all day.”

  “She’s also a pain in the ass. Easy to find out about her, but take it from me: the less you know the better, same as usual. She needs to go, but with you and your code…”

  I smiled. “And Ricky with no code…”

  “See how it is? I want him to go with you. She’s in Savannah-fucking-Georgia, going to some conference. It’s on the back of the picture.”

  I turned the photo over and found an address for a hotel with a date beneath it. Three days from now, if the receipt from the transfer station had been correct.

  “I want you to get Ricky in place,” he said. “She’ll be there in two days. Here—I splurged on the tickets.” He handed me an airline envelope.

  I opened the paper sleeve and looked. My flight was tomorrow morning, 9:20 a.m.

  “Business class all right?” he said.

  “Sure.”

  “Ricky wanted first class, you believe it? But we ain’t the government.” He reached in the drawer and took out a thicker envelope. “That’s the money for that asshole you wiped. And a little more.”

  “Thanks,” I said and took it.

  Lenny's smile faded into a look of concern. “We were all sorry about your wife, Andre. She was a good woman. You should stay down there a few extra days. Soak it up. You know better than most life’s too short.” He eased back in his chair. “Send Ricky in when you leave.”

  A dismissal. And a lot to think about.

  * * *

  Things were definitely looking up for me. Not for the first time in my strange afterlife, I was rolling in blood money. Over the years, I’d come back as a member of countless violent gangs, all of which were involved in guns, killing, and drugs. Andre appeared to be a cut above that lot.

  I wondered what happened to his wife. Terminal disease? Car accident? Something more sinister?

  After the Jolly Green Goombah gave me back my gun, I returned to the dining area and struggled with the mesmerizing, delicious, intoxicating smell of—

  “I wanna know what you and Lenny talked about,” Ricky said, getting too close and sticking his finger an inch from my face.

  He wasn’t a pipsqueak or a little guy, but he was littler than Andre.

  “Ricky,” I said tiredly, “if you don’t move that finger, I’m going to break your nose. Then I’ll have lunch.”

  “Fuck you, medigan,” Ricky said, but he did remove his finger.

  “Boss wants to see you,” I said. “I wouldn’t put my finger in his face, either.”

  “You threatening me? Who the fuck are you, threatening me?”

  I sort of indicated the kitchen area and staff and said, “They got any individual slices? It smells great.”

  Ricky kept staring at me, not making with the information, so I stepped past him to the counter and queried a young guy busy pounding out dough.

  “Sure do,” the man said with a grin. “Free for you, sir.”

  See that? Respect.

  The man told someone to get me anything I wanted.

  I ordered three slices of pepperoni and a Coke and sat down near the entrance. When I glanced back, Ricky was gone. I wondered what his deal was. Lenny said he was going through a phase of some kind—trying to be more like the fictional mobsters he saw in movies rather than the actual criminal he was. Weirdest identity crisis I’d ever heard of.

  “Medigan,” I said and sipped my drink. Then I dug out my phone and looked it up. Medigan was derogatory for anyone who wasn’t Italian.

  Lenny seemed like an okay guy, minus wanting me to kill a pretty lady in Georgia. In mob movies, they always acted really nice shortly before sticking an ice pick in someone’s head. Normally I had a feel for that kind of deception, developed over years of dealing with various criminal elements. Still, this guy lived and breathed his crooked world, while I was mostly happy with just living and breathing.

  Andre was a confusing mix of sexism and horror. He killed people, pulled their teeth out, and cut off their fingers and toes. But he also had a code: no women, no children. Right away, I knew I’d try to get him arrested if I could, rather than eating a bullet. Considering the kinds of people he dealt with, he probably mostly killed other gangsters … and the odd innocent who got in the way, sure, or a thousand other possibilities, granted. The point was, he believed in something. It wasn’t all bleak and hopeless for this guy.

  Then there was Ricky.

  Ricky definitely fit the evil bastard mold. Lenny said Ricky had no problem killing the people Andre wouldn’t. Ergo, ipso facto, presto change-o, that made Lenny just as bad as Ricky. Worse, in some ways, because of his friendly manner toward me. Smiley faced evil was creepy.

  I opened the envelope Lenny had given me, looked inside, and whistled. Twenties, fifties, and hundreds. Holding the envelope under the table, I counted out four thousand dollars.

  “On second thought,” I said, “forget Ricky.”

  I took one of the fifties, approached the guy who’d hooked me up, and slapped it on the glass countertop.

  “Take it easy,” I said, and gave him a wink-wink shoot-’em-up finger gun thing hitmen always did.

  That evening, after returning the U-Haul to the address on the rental agreement, I took a cab to Times Square. I could have driven Andre’s car, but hated struggling through traffic looking for places to park.

  Times Square was bright and shiny and amazing, with gargantuan digital displays everywhere dazzling the packed crowds. Lots of cameras and people traveling in groups. I ended up dropping a couple hundred in twenties to th
e various street performers I encountered—Spider Man, a living Statue of Liberty, Disney Characters. Anyone with a costume and a bucket got some of my blood money.

  When I couldn’t eat any more pizza and my feet started hurting from circling the famous square for the fourth time, I returned to Andre’s house and packed for my trip south.

  Chapter Three

  The next morning, during my modest breakfast, I was interrupted by the sound of someone honking a horn from the street. I knew who it was by how annoyingly long he held it down with each blast. Odd way to be a soulless killer, drawing attention in a nice neighborhood like this.

  I left him alone, buttered my English muffins, sopped up spilled yolk from my over-easy eggs, and chewed my chewy bacon. When I was done—after washing the dishes, brushing my teeth, and rechecking my baggage—I carried Andre’s suitcase with me outside.

  Slowly.

  The driver honked again, loud and long.

  I unlocked Andre’s car and set my bag in the trunk. Still not rushing. Before closing the hatch, I paused in quiet reflection on the precarious state of Israeli-Palestinian relations.

  A car door opened behind me and slammed.

  “Where you think you’re going?” Ricky said. “Didn’t you hear me honking? Also, hey—we’re driving in my car, asshole, and I’m the one that’s driving. You make me miss my flight, I’m telling Lenny.”

  Ricky walked across the nice lawn and not on the sidewalk like a normal person. His tread left a disorderly streak through the light-dark pattern of a recent mow. More than the excessive honking, this small act of ambulatory terrorism irritated me the most.

  Ricky smirked on his way past, then reached in the trunk and grabbed my suitcase. I pulled him back roughly by the shoulder.

  “Get your goddamned—”

  I punched him hard, high on the cheek, throwing all of Andre’s rangy power into it and dropping him on his ass.

  Ricky lay there stunned, staring at nothing. When his eyes refocused he said, “You … the hell with Lenny. That’s it!”

  He got to his knees, already reaching behind his back, and I punted him in the solar plexus clear out to his lunar plexus. His breath whooshed out and he fell forward onto his stomach. While he twisted on the ground, wheezing like he was dying, I lifted his shirt and snagged the semi-automatic pistol holstered at the small of his back.

  After a quick look around the neighborhood to see if anyone was watching—seemed clear—I removed the magazine, racked the slide sideways, and deftly caught the ejected shell. Then I shoved the gun down the back of his pants.

  Ricky’s lips moved but nothing came out, and he had grass and dirt in his mouth from chewing the ground.

  Finally he said, “You can’t hit me—I’m Italian! When I tell my uncle what you did, you’re dead!”

  I leaned down and looked him in the eyes. “You know what I do for your uncle, right? The thing is, I really like doing it. I’m not wired like other people, Ricky. I listen to country and rap music. Both of them, Ricky. Lenny has no idea how many people I’ve killed. And the ones he knows about, most of those guys were Italian, just like you.”

  It was just a guess Lenny usually sent Andre after other mob guys, but it seemed a safe one. And Ricky wouldn’t know the truth in any case—no way a guy like Lenny would confide in this twerp.

  I got in the car, stowed the magazine and extra round in the glove compartment, and backed down the driveway onto the street, parallel to Ricky’s Mustang. I stepped out, went around to his front tire, and stabbed it with the butterfly knife I’d discovered after a more thorough search of the house. The tire issued a screaming whistle, causing me to look around the neighborhood again.

  A short, gray-haired woman stood across the street watching me through her storm door.

  I waved at her.

  She waved back.

  Who said New Yorkers weren’t friendly?

  Before she called 911 and sicced the NYPD on me, I hopped in the car and left New York in search of a beautiful woman I was supposed to kill.

  * * *

  Traffic was heavy through most of New Jersey, and I wondered how late I’d arrive. Just when I thought about stopping for gas, I got a call.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “What the fuck, Andre?”

  Lenny.

  “Doing real good, boss. On my way to Georgia.”

  “That’s why I’m calling.” He sounded concerned, not mad. “I heard you left without my nephew. I also heard you hit him and messed up his car.”

  “Just being unpredictable.”

  Lenny chuckled. “Never known you to be so mouthy. Always been a class act until now. You know what? Forget about it. Everyone has a bad day. So why don’t you go back and pick up Ricky and we’ll talk about it later. Smooth it all out.”

  Even though Lenny was some sort of pizza mobster who hired killers to run around killing, the way he was being nice to me like this … it had this weird effect, making me feel somehow guilty.

  “Here’s the thing,” I said. “I work alone. I’m like a gentle wildebeest, possibly a caribou. Bringing Ricky along messes with my whole wildebeest-caribou thing. Ever heard of a caribou wandering around with a jackass? Me either. So let me do what I have to do, and I’ll come back and we’ll make up.”

  “Caribou?” Lenny said. “Wildebeest? You feeling okay?”

  “Feeling good, boss. But traffic’s kind of heavy and I need to pay attention. I’ll bring you back a finger or an ear, I promise. Maybe both. Great big ones, too, you’ll see.”

  I hung up and held the power button until it turned off.

  To pass the time, I flipped through various radio stations looking for something in range and wished Andre had satellite radio. Increasingly, I wondered what I’d do when I got to Savannah. Obviously I wouldn’t shoot this woman. I’d let her know there were mobsters after her and see how she reacted. Maybe she’d be grateful. Maybe we’d go to dinner and talk about it. Maybe she’d tell me how noble I was for not murdering her. I’d tell her it was nothing at all, just doing my duty. She’d look deeply into my eyes and I’d stare back, and the world would disappear around us.

  There were other possibilities. She could run away screaming and call the cops. The cops wouldn’t think I was noble for not murdering her. They wouldn’t look deeply into my eyes while the world disappeared around us. They’d throw me in jail and serve me prison food and watch me slowly die of boredom in a noisy cell populated by rejects.

  Jersey concluded without a hitch. Then Delaware, then Maryland, and when I finally stopped for gas, I stocked up on little apple pies and a carton of milk to complement the tasty goodness. Tank full and stomach happy, I considered my location and what that meant: Virginia was next, and that’s where she lived.

  Sandra was doing fine without me and had been for a long time. And for the first time since discovering precisely where she lived, I skipped the turnoff from the Beltway and continued down 95 South. Using my head for once. The minister would have been proud of me.

  Two months had passed since talking to him in that church in Toledo. He’d shown up in the middle of my ride as Scott Schaefer, the sex fiend psychologist, and hadn’t batted an eye at the coincidence of taking a job as a priest in the same city as my latest ride. Among other things, he’d said he had a theory about who the Great Whomever was. I’d been curious about that theory ever since.

  He’d told me his phone number and asked me to call him. Since then, I’d justified not calling by staying busy on other rides. In truth, I was happy in my ignorance. So long as I didn’t know why I kept coming back to life, I could putter along according to my conscience.

  I turned the phone back on and called the minister. It rang eight times and dumped to voicemail. I tried again and he answered on the fourth ring.

  “Hello?” he said in a weak voice.

  “That you, Anthony?”

  “Who is this?”

  For some reason, I’d expected him to know throug
h divine such-and-such.

  “It’s me, Dan Jenkins, immortal servant of justice.”

  “Oh,” he said. “You.”

  “Don’t get all mushy. You okay? You sound tired.”

  The minister responded with a fit of coughing. Then came a clattering sound, followed by a couple of beeps as his fingers pressed various buttons on his phone.

  “You still there?” he said at last.

  “In the flesh. Get it?”

  A sigh from the other end.

  “Despite being confined to this bed for three days with the flu,” he said, wheezing, “I’m going to tell you a discouraging truth: I’ve never found you funny. What do you want?”

  “You said to call you. You had a theory about the Great Whomever.”

  “Why didn’t you call sooner?” he said tiredly.

  The in-person experience with the minister was frequently punctuated by terrifying psychic attacks of holy indignation. When he got like that, staring at me and compelling honesty, all I could do was tell him the truth. Over the phone, no such compulsion existed.

  “If you must know, I’ve been pretty busy. Fighting evil, saving beautiful women…”

  The minister grunted. “I’ll tell you what I think, and then I’m hanging up. Have you heard of the Book of Enoch?”

  “The Book of Enoch,” I said, “is an ancient religious text attributed to Enoch, great grandfather of Noah.”

  “Where did you learn that?”

  “Encyclopedia Britannica.”

  “Have you read the Book of Enoch?” he said.

  “Not as such.”

  The minister sighed. “The Book describes two hundred irin—angelic Watchers—who taught mankind astronomy, weapons, sorcery, and other forbidden knowledge. For this, they were chained in everlasting darkness until Judgment Day. The leader of the two hundred was Azazel, but I don’t think you’re him. I think you’re Danel, one of their chiefs. You have a block of some kind, and you were born into the world ignorant of your ancestry. That’s why you think you’re just a normal person.” He breathed heavily a few times. “But you’re not.”