Hardy somehow knew that, as well. It had to be one of the reasons he had handed the responsibility off to Sean – the Vigilante. He hadn’t accused him of any misconduct. There was no need. The boy practically carried the responsibility for their safety on his slim shoulders.
I my hands behind my back, held them together thoughtfully.
“Guess whose carcass I just identified?”
Sean looked at me with what little of a curious expression he could form.
“Who?”
“Walter Shoupe.”
His blue eyes flared up. “How? Who did it?”
“Who ya think done it? They didn’t leave much to identify him with. We got his prints. Besides that, not much. The wops who worked him did a good job makin’ a mess.”
“But why?”
I shrugged, just as bewildered. “I ain’t got a thing to say. All I know is there’s somethin’ weird. My initial thought is it’s payback for what Shoupe and his boys did to them. Somehow Marzio or one of his boys wised up to what really happened, then decided to pay Shoupe a visit. He was the only one ya left breathin’ after the massacre. The rest ya bumped off.”
“That seems logical,” Sean replied. “It was merely Shoupe’s body on the street, I’d believe that. But this doesn’t sense.”
“I know. So what’s ya plan?”
Through his mask, Sean formed a cryptic smile. “We’re going to remove the last remnant of Marzio’s organization. They are holed up in an abandoned tavern on Water Street.”
“Ya need to be careful with that mob, kid. They’re like fire.”
“No. They’re kindling that’s been stacked up for ten years. Yesterday Marzio decided to flick a match near it. I’m merely channeling the fire.”
“I want ya to have Nelson to send a few officers. He’s a good detective. I’m the one who’s responsible for hiring him. We need suspects to question. So far we haven’t gotten zilch.”
“I will try as best I can.”
Chances were Nelson wouldn’t hear a thing about it until it was all over.
“Swell.”
I didn’t wait for Sean to leave the building. The boy was smart enough to find his own way there. I headed to the dispatcher’s room. A team of repairmen had themselves burrowed in the tangled spider’s web that was the phone cords.
“How’s it going, fellas?” I asked. “Any luck?”
“No,” one of the men replied, transfixed on a group of wires. “The phones are a nightmare right now. It’s gonna take some time to rewire them properly. I just spoke to one of the operators; they said it should be up in a few hours. A couple of guys from a radio shop down the street got sent over there to check out the antennae for the KAFA Tower.”
“Good.”
“It don’t make sense, though,” one of them said. He tugged at his greasy overalls. “Marzio ain’t a moron. Guineas like him don’t make dumb moves like this. Sure, we got hit with a sledgehammer, but he put all of his weight into us, as if to prove a point, and lost it all.”
“I know,” I mumbled. “I’m thinkin’ the same here. We’ll know more about it when we have him in custody.”
“Just do one thing.”
An eyebrow raised. “Yeah?”
The repairman jerked his head around, exhaustion in his breath. “Make sure he don’t forget what he did. I don’t want this wop gettin’ away with this.”
The other repairmen hollered in agreement.
I laughed ironically, leaned on the unstable doorway. “He’ll be lucky if he makes it into the interrogation room without being castrated by a mob. Trust me, fellas, he ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
I happened to hear my phone ring as I passed by the stairway. I anxiously ran up to grab it like a man about to drown would grab a life ring. I didn’t even introduce myself before a voice spoke.
My eyes widened instantly; my mouth opened slightly.
“Hold on right there!” I yelled. “I’ll be seein’ ya in a sec!”
I didn’t bother to hang the phone up before I fled out of the room.
***
Outside the police station, the Vigilante walked down the steps with a slow, deliberate gait. On the street, a gathering of Irishman stood in a circle, smoking cigarettes and talking amongst themselves privately. When they saw him, they turned around, waiting for him to speak.
He gazed at them, but said nothing. Instead, he gestured away from the street, over to the south.
Looking over at the corner of the street, he saw Patrick and Evelyn Malone next to a fire hydrant. Patrick had his arms around her protectively, looking over his shoulder habitually, a small pistol in his hand.
The Vigilante’s eyes widened, then narrowed as he reached the Irishman, ordering them to head to a certain address and wait for him there. They obeyed without question or hesitation, leaving him to confront Patrick and Evelyn in a discreet manner so as not to draw attention to them.
“What are you doing here?” the Vigilante asked Patrick.
Patrick gaped at him in disbelief. “Is it really ye, Sean? Am I dreamin’?”
“Go home. Stay there. For once, listen to what I say.”
Grunting the Vigilante turned away, only to find Evelyn tugging at his coat. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she drew near to him. As she did so, however, he fell back until she begged him not to move away from her.
“What do you want?” he asked.
Evelyn gazed at him as though she looked at a dead man who had risen from the grave. Skeptical, she reached out to touch his face, but he pushed her hand down, albeit gently.
“Don’t,” he said.
“Where are ye off to?” Patrick inquired.
“Where you can’t follow.”
“Please,” Evelyn said to him. “We don’t understand. What happened to you?”
The Vigilante looked down at her with saddened eyes. “Tell me; are you truly this surprised, or do you merely wish you were more surprised?”
She did not seem to understand what he meant. As she looked down and away to think it over, the Vigilante took her by the arm, leading her back over to Patrick. Patrick instinctively took her by the arm as the Vigilante escorted them to the end of the street.
“Go back to Eastern Avenue,” he ordered. “It is safe there, safer than anywhere else. The neighborhood has a guard in case there are any more attacks, but I doubt there will be. But I’m not taking any chances with you two.”
Patrick frowned, shaking his head. “I want to help ye, too. I can help ye as good as any other man ye have with ye.”
“Go home and stay there. I’m not willing to risk it.”
Patrick’s tone softened to a point that seemed beyond what he should have been capable of as he gazed at the Vigilante.
“I’m sorry, Sean. I wasna good to ye. Ye have a right not to trust me. But can’t ye forgive me?”
The Vigilante looked down at Evelyn, who held an unusually determined expression, then at Patrick. His lips fell apart as he paused.
“I forgive you, Patrick,” he said. “That’s why I want you to stay out of this. I have suffered enough already. I won’t suffer losing either of you.”
He then turned and ran away before they could reply. Evelyn started to cry, but then stopped herself, finding the strength to maintain her composure as she walked and Patrick down Elliot Street as men around them cleaned up the damage wrought by fighting.
***
I let go of a long-held breath when I saw Hardy enter the restaurant at the corner of Rantoul and Wallis Street. The exterior of the restaurant had been destroyed, yet the interior had not been touched. The makeshift barricade that surrounded it explained why.
The bell above the front door clanged as it opened. The owner, Antonio Sergio came out of the kitchen, wiping his hand fretfully. He was had a thick moustache, wore a large, spotty white apron; despite the strong garlic aroma, he still smelled of gunpowder.
Hardy looked at the owner charily.
“Somebody he
re for me?” he asked.
“Si,” Antonio replied as he waved over to me.
Hardy then spotted me at a two-person table next to the kitchen. I had picked my position carefully. I needed to be seen, but not be noticeable. This was not a conversation I wanted to be overheard, or even known about.
“Ya came,” he said understatedly.
“I did,” Hardy said as he sat across from me. He put his cigar in his mouth, rolled it around as he searched for a match.
“Don’t bother,” I said, my lighter produced quickly.
“Thanks.”
Antonio approached us eagerly His accent was barely comprehensible; I had learned to decipher it after two years.
“Cana get something for ya, gentlemen?” he inquired. “Would you like a la carte, or table d’hôte.”
“A la carte would be fine, Antonio,” I replied as I smoked on the stub of a cigarette. I grinned as I gazed at Hardy; he seemed unusually withdrawn. “I know what my friend and I want. He’ll have the lasagna; I’ll take the gnocchi.”
“Ah! Both are delizioso! You comma to the righta place, my friends!”
“Can we get a cup of coffee?”
“Of course!”
Hardy stared at Antonio irritably, waved him away. He then gestured disdainfully at my rumpled clothes. I had changed out of them in three days.
“Aren’t ya ever gonna try wearin’ nything’ fancy?”
I leaned over the table, blew a circular cloud of smoke at the lamp. I hadn’t looked into a mirror in those same three days. I didn’t have to; I knew my face was unkempt, that I smelled like oil.
But as I rested an arm on the tabletop, I felt refreshed. The information I had just received had lifted my spirits, put me in a somewhat tolerable mood.
Hardy seemed to realize this.
“Why did ya ask me to come here?” he asked, slightly aggravated.
I spun my lighter around on the table.
“I’m gonna level with ya, Hardy,” I said. “I’ve got nything’ big. Real big. Just found out about it. I need some help.”
I eyed him sternly. “But I need to know who’s side your own.”
Hardy laughed defensively. “Ya think I’m on the wrong side of this thing? Didn’t I prove myself in the last three days?”
“It ain’t hard to be a hero when the only other choice is a painful death. These bastards weren’t interested none in negotiatin’.”
“I’m clean. I ain’t taken a bribe in months.”
“Except for the one I saw you take last week.”
“Come on, Moore! It was fifty bucks, so a guy didn’t have to spend his five-year-old’s birthday in the slammer. He wasn’t a hoodlum, either, just a moron. I figure fifty bucks is worth the price of bein’ a genius, don’t ya think?”
I studied Hardy suspiciously. I wasn’t entirely certain what to think of him now. He had changed; that much had been confirmed. But to what degree? Or was his behavior purely based on circumstance?
Whatever the truth was, I had to risk it. The only other officers I could trust were too busy to help.
I turned to the kitchen, put a hand to the side of my mouth as I called for Antonio. The Sicilian came out earnestly with a percolator in his hands. He filled two cups full of coffee, then addressed me in a friendly fashion.
“What canna do for ya, detective?”
“Ya weren’t fond of Costa’s boys, were ya?”
Antonio worked himself up; furious eyes, animated deportment. The name had a dissimilar effect on him. His thick arms waved around in the air as he theatrically described his plight.
“I donna get involved with those bad men! Costa sends his men into my place, tellin’ Antonio Sergio what he gonna do and how much he gonna pay if he donna want to have trouble. They tried to make me buy their gin and said if I didn’t they would burn ma place to the ground!”
He squeezed the percolator like it was a neck, his solid fingers pressing into it. “I throw them out, tell ‘em that they ever comma back here I break their jaws with ma bare hands!”
He laughed heartily, his massive hand landing on Hardy’s shoulder. “And ya know want? Those zoticones neva comma back here!”
“Splendid tale,” Hardy grumbled. “Ya dragged me out here to listen to this?”
My voice grew somber, grave. Another cigarette in stuck between teeth, I crushed the tobacco leaves as I drank a sip of the fresh black coffee.
“Antonio,” I said, “now ya tell Hardy here what ya just told me earlier today.”
Antonio bent down, leveled himself with the two men. He whispered, checked the window sporadically to ensure they were not spied on.
“I wasa emptyin’ my garbage out in the alleyway,” he explained. “Whena saw five men hidin’ there. I thought they looka suspicious to me, but I donna want no fight, not now, so I go back into the kitchen. Then, I worry they gonna come in and do nything’ bad, so I grab ma shotgun and look at the alley again. They walkin’ away, turning the corner.”
“Yeah?” Hardy said, swallowing a mouthful of coffee; it tasted bittersweet, two teaspoons of sugar added without a prompt. He looked at me; I merely smiled.
Antonio’s eyes looked past the walls, recollected the occurrence with lurid clarity.
“They all hava guns, big guns; they dress like Mafioso, but walk like G-men, ya understand?”
“Sounds a bit queer, but go on.”
Hardy took a sip when Antonio spoke.
“One of the men was Fredo Marzio.”
He spit out the coffee on the table, dropped the mug. He leapt out of his chair, gaped at Antonio fiercely. “Ya saw him? Why didn’t ya call us, then?”
“Let him finish,” I advised. “There’s more.”
“At first, I thought these men were bodyguards,” Antonio explained. “But then I see something that didna make no sense.”
“What?”
“They werena protecting him. They were kidnapping him.”
Hardy appeared incredulous. “Kidnapping him?”
“Si, he had handcuffs bound around his wrists, and they kept hittin’ him with the butts of their guns.”
Antonio then left to prepare our meals, while we exchanged glances. He came back two steaming plates of cheesy lasagna and gnocchi. A prolonged time transpired while we ate wordlessly. We could sense each other’s thoughts in the dense air.
I let reality sink in slowly.
Marzio had been kidnapped. It was a lot to digest with the food. Antonio had said it right.
There was no sense to it. Hardy was perplexed, but he had made the logical deduction hours ago, even without the proof to back it up.
We had all tried to figure out why Marzio had ordered his men to go crazy. The flaw in our logic had been the expectation that even a mobster like Marzio would do something bad for business.
I then tried to think like Marzio would have; the whole thing was illogical—not immoral—because Marzio wasn’t bound by a code of morals. He was emotionless. He never arranged hit jobs out of anger or ordered assassinations due to a bad temper. He was a coldhearted businessman, but a businessman nonetheless.
That was the cipher for the enigma. His religion, his god was the almighty dollar. When one looked at it that way, the picture was clear.
The riot hadn’t just been depraved; it had been the worst business move Marzio could have made.
Presumption; Marzio had given the order.
Bad presumption.
Someone had pulled the strings in his stead. He hadn’t cooperated. It was bad for business.
I ran a napkin across my mouth. My plate was empty; Antonio cooked better than any other joint in town. I rubbed my stomach; a familiar sensation of an appetite satisfied swelled in me.
A wave of men passed by the restaurant, carried rifles in their hands. Hardy raised his head as he edged his body away from his seat, pulled out his watch.
“Ya a strange man, Seth Moore.”
“How so?”
“Nobody can
figure ya out. We tried to, back in the day, thought you were easily bendable, one of those idealists who’d crack. Ya anything but an idealist.”
I chuckled gruffly, reached for a Lucky Strike. Hardy leaned over the table. He thought I would give him the same courtesy of explanation, reveal what it was that motivated me.
That part of my life, however, I kept to myself.
“Antonio said the men looked like G-men,” I said. “They didn’t just look like G-men. They were G-men.”
“What?”
“Yeah. The feds grabbed him.”
“Why?”
I tapped his watch. “That’s what I’m gonna find out in half an hour. Through some of my unscrupulous contacts, ironically, I got in touch with one of them. I’m gonna talk to Marzio myself.”
“Tell the feds we want ‘em!”
“No. That’s part of the agreement. I just wanna talk.”
“Are ya out of ya mind, Moore! We want his guts hung from a flagpole!”
I grabbed Hardy’s arm with a fierce grip. “This ain’t just about Marzio. It goes further than that. He didn’t order his men to go nuts like that. Someone else did it.”
“Who?”
“I’m gonna find out. When I do, I’m gonna need ya help to bring ‘em in.”
“What about Elroy and Barker?”
“They’re too political. This one may get messy.”
“What if Marzio don’t wanna play that game?”
I smiled as I exhaled cigarette smoke. “I ain’t gonna give him the choice.”
***
I stood outside of the door, teeth bite into upper lip, my hands quaky as I held them in my pockets. A cigarette hung on my lower lip.
I was alone, a place I knew well. The two G-men who had escorted me to the door had then promptly departed. Hadn’t said a word as they had done an about-face on me. The lack of small talk didn’t bother me, though. I knew the drill.
I let my cigarette fall to the ground, squished it with the heel of my foot. All I got was indistinct noises.
My heart rate rose, slightly. Just slightly.
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