There were twenty-five thousand people in Beverly. All of them wanted a private word or two with the man on the other side of that door.
Only I would get the chance.
Twenty-five thousand to one. The odds were impressively small.
The door opened. Out stepped two men. One of them closed the door, hand on hip. I eyed them carefully. It was too easy.
G-men were the easiest types to spot in a crowd. Still wet behind the ears, they hadn’t yet learnt the art of discreetness. They dressed smooth, held themselves in a blatantly authoritative manner.
“They are ready for you, Detective Moore,” one of them said.
“Swell,” I said. “Thank ya boss for me, will ya?”
They looked at me blankly.
“You can thank him in a minute,” the same man replied.
A moment later, a shorter man came through the door; Special Agent Duncan, the agent in charge of the operation. His demeanor contrasted starkly from his agents. He had a cheerful expression, seemed friendly. A glint in his eye spoke of his admiration for me. He must have read the papers regularly.
I came up to him, offered my hand.
“As I was tellin’ ya boys, thanks for this invitation,” I said.
Duncan shook my hand warmly. He was in his fifties; his gray hair gave him a dignified look. He dressed a tight dark brown suit. It made him appear nimble. A well-trimmed beard seemed to convey shrewdness.
“No thanks are necessary, Detective Moore,” Duncan answered. “Consider it a favor from one law enforcement officer to another.”
“Seems fine with me. I’m used to favors. I’m also used to returnin’ them.”
Duncan smiled. “Your reputation has followed you, I can assure you.”
“Yeah, like a naggin’ wife. How long do I have with ‘em?”
“Not long, I’m afraid. An hour or so. We’re going to transport him as soon as our security detachment arrives.”
“Ain’t bad.”
“I have to state, however obvious it may be, that he is not to be touched.”
“No problem.”
“I understand that you might have some strong feelings, but I must ask you to not act on them.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout me. I ain’t the one chained to the floor.”
Duncan nodded to his agents. They opened the door, allowed me to go inside. I bent my neck slightly, coughed, feigned hesitation. I was admittedly a tad nervous. I had imagined what it would be like to speak to Marzio face to face.
Now I would know.
I walked through the door, a suitcase in hand as we entered a short passageway. The walls were a pale gray, the smell of mildew thick in the air. I breathed through my mouth, held my nose as I came to the next door at the end of the passage.
Two additional G-men stood there. They saw me, took the keys chained to their wrists, then unlocked the metal door. It was heavy; they had to push their weight into it.
This was it.
Initially led into the building blindfolded, I had rehearsed my questions a thousand times. Hell, two thousand times. I had fantasized about it as a rookie detective, when I had still been in a uniform.
I ducked underneath the short doorframe, entered a dark room. Without any light, the agents shut the door, left I a world of darkness.
I didn’t stir at all.
Some time passed, just silence there to entertain me.
Then a solitary lamp on a table in the center of the room turned on.
At the table a man sat in a chair.
I looked at him with a wry smile. I had desired a conversation with him for years.
The man was blinded by the lights, squinted vulnerably.
Good.
It was all the better.
Don Fredo Marzio finally saw the light.
I gawked at him intentionally, somewhat disappointed. The legendary awe I was supposed to feel in his presence never came.
There was the revenge, too. I couldn’t make the mobster happy.
Don Marzio had his hands on the table, cuffed by chains connected to the wall. He wore the clothes of an immigrant grocery clerk, his olive oil skin shaded with dirt, his face unkempt. His black hair shined from grease, not jell or oil.
He looked miserable. Like he should.
But it was Don Marzio. He had a natural ambiance, the kind of ambiance a politician would kill to have.
His pale green eyes stared back at me with the naïve curiosity of a wild animal. Even with his whole body in rags, his pride was untouched. He had too much confidence for his own good.
I came up to the table, placed the suitcase on it. I crossed my arms, looked at Marzio with a sneer.
I couldn’t resist it. The irony was too sweet, too thick to resist. Like a good soup.
I then bowed, grabbed Marzio’s right hand, kissed the top of it.
“Don Marzio,” I said, my Italian accent impeccably on mark, “I coma to paya ma respects.”
Marzio said nothing. He didn’t shrug off the gesture. He turned his head away, too noble in his own eyes to honor my kiss or request for a blessing.
“Not gonna talk?” I asked.
No answer. I didn’t expect one. It was the build-up. I’d have to throw a pile of rocks to be able to climb up to Mario’s height of arrogance. But I’d never be able to summit it.
There was another way. Toss him off of his high horse, or just cut the saddle loose.
Or just shoot the damn horse.
I tapped the suitcase, swiveled it around on its axis, then slammed my hand on it.
“Ya know who I am?” he asked.
No answer.
“Cat got ya tongue?”
No answer.
I smiled, chuckled heartily.
Marzio tried to preserve his emotionless facade. His effort would fail in the end. It would break. I had no doubts about it. I had had years to research Marzio, to learn his passions, what made him tick, what drove him mad.
It all came down to a man’s life philosophy. What did he live for?
Marzio’s was too easy to discover.
I clicked the suitcase open, flipped the top back, then slid it over to Marzio. Initially, Marzio refused to look inside. I then violently shoved it up against his chest. I grabbed his head, forced him to look down.
The mobster’s eyes glistened fondly with surprise. His pursed lips curved as he gazed at the contents.
The inside of the suitcase held his heart’s desire: His black/green striped original “London Suit” designed by Friedrich Scholte, a spotless white shirt, diamond-studded cufflinks, spotless white spats. It even contained his Ashplant walking stick.
Marzio opened his mouth. He couldn’t contain his desires.
“Where did you get these?” he asked.
“From ya house,” I replied.
“These are mine!”
“Exactly.”
“Give them back!”
I wagged a finger, snatched the suitcase when Marzio tried to touch it. I pulled it back to the other side of the table. I then sat down, plopped a pack of Lucky Strikes on the table. I slid an ashtray between them, took a seat in a chair. I dropped my fedora down, my hands on my knee.
“I ain’t got a lot of time with ya, Don,” I stated. “Trust me, if I had all the time in the world, I wouldn’t have given ya a peek at ya belongin’s until intermission time. I ain’t into spoilin’ the suspense, but this can’t wait. Ya know the friggin’ drill, Marzio.”
“Why should I talk to a man like you?” Marzio asked.
“Ya know me?”
Marzio forced himself to smile.
“Seth Moore, lead detective for the homicide bureau of the Beverly Police Department. Lives at 31428 Kittredge Street.”
“Good. Glad to know I ain’t underappreciated.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
I waved a hand of dismissal. “Whatever. I don’t give a rat’s ass. Here’s the lay down; ya tell me a few lovely pieces of information. I’ll le
t ya enjoy these wonderful articles of clothin’. I might even have the boys bring ya a bottle of Pinot Noir, ya favorite.”
“You seem to know quite a bit about me.”
I grinned sarcastically. “Surprised?”
“Not as much as I could be.”
Marzio tried to stall. I wouldn’t let him have the seconds. Time was on his side. If he could delay the inevitable, it would offset the damage. I had to remind myself it was Marzio, not some foot soldier who got caught with a briefcase full of narcotics, the sort of fellow who’d beg for a plea bargain.
There, I wasn’t a policeman. Marzio wasn’t on trial. Our bargain would revolve around that one truth. Interrogations only worked when the prisoner was afraid.
Marzio wasn’t afraid of anyone. Not even the Vigilante. He was cautious, wary, but not easily frightened.
I leaned back, pushed the pack of Lucky Strikes over to him.
“Better to talk over a smoke,” I offered.
“The agents don’t like it,” Marzio replied.
“Who cares? They’re takin’ ya outta here anyways.”
“I know.”
“I’m gonna be straight with ya, Don. Ya ain’t anythin’ special to me, but I feel like this is a special occasion.”
Marzio seemed somewhat amused.
“I see,” he said quietly. “Go on.”
“From the way I see it, I figure ya weren’t the one who told ya boys to stop bumpin’ off everybody they saw on the road like they were cleanin’ up the streets of cockroaches.”
Marzio’s eyebrows elevated. I observed the expression, then resumed.
“Wanna know how I came to that?” I asked.
“Humor me.”
“Aside from any moral compunctions ya might or might not have had, it all boiled down to this; where the hell is the profit in it? There wasn’t a freakin’ dime to be found in what happened. None of ya boys went for the safes, the lockboxes, the bank vaults. No cash, no diamonds, no gold, no jewelry, no bonds, no stocks. Nada. Zilch. It was blind violence. No tactics or strategy except for chaos. That ain’t ya, Don. Ya connivin’ got fingerprints; I could always tell when ya was the brains behind a hit. That one ain’t got so much as a swirl or loop of yours in it.”
Marzio was perfectly still. Then he suddenly clapped his hands like he was at the opera house.
“Congratulations, Detective Moore,” he exclaimed. “I was starting to think no one knew me.”
I grinned from ear to ear, shrugged. “I ain’t crazy, just stubborn. And maybe a little arrogant, but I’d like to think I’m the humblest guy around.”
“Quite.”
“My offer ain’t gonna last forever, my friend. Ya a business man, right? Consider this the offer of a lifetime, but it again gonna be around for a lifetime. Know what I mean?”
Marzio touched his thin moustache. He seemed to grow interested in the deal. The green stripes on the London suit enticed him.
“What do you want from me?” Marzio asked.
“Questions answered,” I replied. “Ya can’t look me in the eye, Don, and tell me that I’m bein’ unreasonable.”
“I didn’t say that.”
I smiled, stuck a match between my teeth, bit down on the wood. I let it roll around in my mouth. My nerves calmed. Sufficient time had passed. Marzio had lost that air of wonder, the mystery around his image. He had concealed himself from the press, permitted only a carefully selected group of photographers to dare aim their cameras at him.
No wonders there. He was shy; he didn’t like his photo taken. He was prudent; if one of those cameras contained a gun inside that flashed a muzzle instead of a lens, it wouldn’t have been the first time.
I looked at my watch. Ten minutes had gone by. Fifty minutes left.
If only we were at a police station. If only we were in an interrogation room. I’d have gotten Marzio to sweat under red hot lights like he was on vacation in Florida, ripped a confession off of his smooth, guinea tongue in ten minutes.
The bulge in my leather jacket pressed into his rib. My revolver was always a blunt, but easy tool to use. I figured it would take just a wave of it in front of Marzio’s sensitive face. Then he’d squeal like a pig. Then again, Marzio had probably been threatened with death plenty in his lifetime.
Marzio had an uncanny posture. He sat like he wasn’t sure whose side he was on.
Forty-eight minutes left.
I realized he had better find a way to get Marzio on my side. Quick.
Then, an ominous rumble vibrated through the walls.
My reaction was automatic. I flew out of his chair, pulled out my revolver.
I listened to the din after explosion. Erratic gunfire, grenades, shouts of confusion.
Too easy. There was an assault on the building.
The door opened. One of the agents rushed in, eyed Marzio first, then me. His face was full of dread.
“We need to evacuate the building immediately!” he said.
“What’s goin’ on?” I asked.
“What do you think? We’re being attacked!”
“Who?”
“Who do you think? It’s Marzio’s men!”
Marzio chuckled derisively, shook his head. None of it seemed to surprise him.
“You fools,” he said.
I glanced at Marzio suspiciously.
“Know anything about this?” I inquired.
“Possibly.”
“Want to expound on that?”
“Would you care for me to elaborate?”
I pointed my revolver at him, smiled. “Not as much as ya might wanna.”
The agent stepped in-between us, pushed down my gun. He treated Marzio like a woman would a twenty-four-carat diamond; guard it, hoard it, protect it, never let it out of their sight.
“He’s no good to us dead,” the man said firmly to me.
“He ain’t no good to ya if he escapes either, does he?” I replied.
“Doesn’t matter. I have my orders. We’re to ensure he is not harmed.”
The guard approached Marzio with a key in his hand. He worked fast, unlocked Marzio’s chains from the walls, but kept him cuffed as he led him over to the door.
“You lead,” the agent said to me.
“Me?”
“Why not?”
I pointed at Mario resolutely.
“I ain’t got no incentive to help ya out, unless ya willin’ to let me finish my chat with the wop here.”
“Is that all that matters to you?” Marzio asked.
I didn’t like his tone. I spun around, violently grabbed Marzio by his shirt collar, tugged him so our faces were an inch apart.
“Ya ain’t gonna use me like ya did all ya worthless pawns,” I said. “I ain’t gonna waste two seconds of my time tryin’ to keep ya alive at the risk of my own friggin’ neck, get me?”
I let go of Marzio’s collar, shoved him into the door.
In the background, the firefight had intensified. It had drawn close to our location. If we didn’t move soon, we would be trapped in the narrow passageway, a last-stand.
I had too many scores to settle to die there.
Marzio suddenly put down his ego like a knight would his sword in battle. He grunted at me as he waved to the door.
“Let us go,” he urged, “before they come and find me. I assure you, detective, they won’t hesitate like you do.”
“Whadya mean?”
“Isn’t it obvious to you, detective? They aren’t here to rescue me. They’re here to kill me.”
I gazed at him intently. I didn’t sense any dishonesty in Marzio’s eyes. The mobster spoke the truth.
“Why is that?” I asked.
“Get me out of here, and I will tell you what I know. You have my word.”
The agent ran up the passageway to the outer door. He knocked on it, waited while it opened from the outside. He inspected the extended corridor, waved to them when it was safe to move.
I pressed my revolver into Marzio�
��s back, plugged an unlit cigarette in my mouth.
“By all means, ya go first,” I said. “Respect and all that shit.”
***
Three men lay dead on the floor at my feet.
I couldn’t see them, or anyone else; not even Marzio.
In front of me, bright rays of light blinked rapidly like cameras. Every second or so a thud occurred.
Our exploration of the building revealed it to be a bakery. We had wandered into in a room adjacent to the ovens. The sweet aroma of dough mixed with buttery baguettes. It deluded the mind, gargled the senses with a sweet sensation in the mouth. The aroma didn’t stir well with the image of mangled corpses at my feet.
I fired rapidly behind a rack of bread, then stared down at one of the men I had killed.
The mobster looked differently in death. He seemed peaceful as he lay with his arm outstretched over his chest. There was a large hole in his torso. The exit wound left a splatter on the wall behind him.
I itched for a cigarette. I pulled one out, chomped on it as I searched the man’s pockets, a watchful eye cast to my left. I raised my eyebrows when he failed to find a thing. No wallet. No papers. No money. Just ammunition.
Strange.
Clouds of powdery white left the vicinity in a murky haze. One of our unknown enemies had perforated several large bags of flour, spread it into the air like spring-time pollen.
With a five-foot range of visibility, I remained motionless. I spotted an outline on the ground. An acrid taste entered my mouth, the grit of gunpowder, the stench of viscera.
I gripped the bread rack next to me, then shoved it out into the sand storm of white flour.
The mobsters took the bait. A splatter of gunshots obliterated the bread on the rack. Three partially destroyed loaves dropped onto the tiled floor.
I memorized where the flickers had come from, took my time as I sent back a return shot to them individually. After each shot, I stepped to the side; the decision was wise; several times I watched a bullet pass by my head.
Someone shouted.
“We need to regroup!”
The voice attracted a barrage of lead in his direction. Voices were the poles on the compass. Talk too loud, the arrow pointed at you.
I held my sights in the midsection of a grayish shape to my left. I pulled the trigger, modified my aim when it gave off a snappy click in the midst of dead silence.
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