Nine Fingers

by Thom August

“Oh, I have some idea,” I said. “But thanks for your concern,”

  “Vincent?” the little guy asked. “Where are we going? And, if you don’t mind my impertinence in asking, what is this ridiculous little contretemps all about?”

  “We’re going north,” I said. “And it’s all about love.”

  CHAPTER 63

  Ken Ridlin

  On Lake Geneva

  Monday, January 27

  We are gathered at the house on the lake. The isolation feels like it’s worth the distance.

  The Accountant and the Cleaner, if that’s what they call them, are sitting in two chairs back-to-back, handcuffed to each other. Amelia and Landreau are off in her room, the door locked. Laura and Akiko are in another room, that door locked, too. Amatucci is on the deck, checking the perimeter. I am watching our hostages.

  The slider opens and Amatucci comes in from the deck. He hands me the phone.

  I think: this could work. This could stop all the whispers. This could put me at the top, back where I used to be.

  I punch in the eight-hundred number, then the access code. A dial tone comes on.

  I walk over to the Accountant. “OK,” I say. “Time to call the guy who calls the guy who calls the guy. Tell me the number.”

  He speaks it out. I punch it in. Hold the phone up to his ear.

  The Accountant jumps. “Hello?” he says. “It’s me calling in? From the field? From Collections? I’m with our other friend, who joined me at that function we had arranged? Out on South Cicero?” He waits, blinking his eyes.

  “No. He’s tied up right now,” he says. “Listen? I need to speak to Mr. C.?” Another pause. “Mr. C. Senior?”

  A long pause.

  “Yes, yes, I know it’s highly unusual, but trust me, he’ll want to speak with me.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Landreau and Amelia enter the room, with Laura and Akiko behind them. The Accountant is listening carefully. He opens his mouth, jumps in.

  “I have met you before, haven’t I? Tall guy, greasy hair, one big eyebrow? You’re the weight lifter, the one who stands around with his mouth open, aren’t you? With the brain the size of a walnut? Your name would be Rocco, isn’t that correct? I hate to use names over the phone. It can get one in such trouble with the authorities, whomever might be listening, don’t you think? But Rocco? You hold up this call for one more minute, and you’re not going to have to worry about anyone listening. If the person I am seeking discovers that you obstructed this call, he is going to cut your puny little heart out of your muscle-bound chest and feed it to you for your last high-protein meal. Oh, and while you’re bleeding to death, he’s going to cut your tiny little dick off and bring it home so his cat can lick it with its sharp sandpaper tongue. In other words, he would be seriously displeased if you waited one more second. Are you following this, or would you like me to repeat it so you can take notes?”

  There is a short pause. Then his eyebrows jerk up.

  “Thank you, Rocco, I understand this may take some time. You can transfer the call from there, can’t you?” His tone changes from menacing to mincing in a heartbeat.

  His eyes turn back to the phone. “Sir?” he says. “Yes, that’s right, sir, it’s me, and I hate to bother you and would not presume to do so, but we—”

  I take the phone away from him.

  “It’s about your daughter,” I say. “And her girlfriend.”

  There is a pause on the other end, then, “Who is this?”

  “And it’s about your wife, and your courier here, with his bag full of Franklins, and someone he calls the Cleaner.”

  “Who the fuck is this?”

  “I’m, uh, I’m with the band. And people are dead and it’s time for all of this to stop.”

  “Who are you to presume to tell me about my business, my family business? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  “The girl is a friend of mine. She—”

  “Stop,” he says. “What do you propose?”

  “A deal,” I say. “A swap.”

  “Of course. A swap. What else?” He sounds weary, tired.

  “Let me talk to my friend. Not the one with the money, the other one.”

  I pause.

  “He can talk to you, but you can’t talk to him,” I say. I walk over to the Cleaner, hold the phone in front of him.

  “Zep,” he says. “Do not do this. It’s the Riddler, he’s—”

  I take the phone away. Hold it to my ear.

  “All right,” he says. “We’ll meet. Where? When?”

  “There’s a club down in Calumet City called the Nickelodeon,” I say. “Midnight. Tonight. You can bring one other person, no more.”

  There is a pause at the other end; then he hangs up.

  I turn off the phone, flop down in the big leather chair. I realize that everyone is there.

  The Cleaner speaks.

  “This is gonna be a repeat. Last time? It did not turn out too good for you.”

  As if it’s the only thing that ever happened in my life. It doesn’t follow me around anymore, it has become me. I’m ‘the cop who…’

  “No,” I say. “Your source is bad.”

  “My source is me. I was there. Standing right behind you. When you got yourself shot.”

  Amatucci jumps out of his chair.

  “Shot? You got shot?”

  “It was a long time ago. And he wasn’t there.”

  There was someone standing behind me. Was it him? I was too drunk to know.

  He turns to the Accountant. “He’s Kenny Ridlin, you remember? ‘The Riddler,’ the cop who got shot by his own people?”

  They talk like they’re two old ballplayers remembering a long-ago play-off game. One they had won.

  “Lower Wacker Drive, east of Michigan. Late at night. Me and Zep, Ridlin and his boss, some other guys. We’re supposed to be negotiating.”

  “I think I remember hearing about this,” the Accountant chimes in.

  “And Ridlin here starts to rag Mr. C. Drunk, of course, always drunk, those days. Foam is coming out of his mouth. All of a sudden, he makes a lunge at Mr. C., and there’s a shot from behind him. He turns, looks at his lieutenant—what was his name? Jefferson? Washington?—and he drops to the ground.”

  “Where did the projectile enter?” the Accountant asks.

  “In the back, right side, middle. It nicks his spine and takes out half his liver.” He cranes his neck my way. “That right, Ridlin?”

  “You weren’t there. It was somebody else,” I say, and the words hit my own ears and I realize I do not know what I’m saying.

  “Standing right behind you. See, my job? What I’m there for? You take one more step and I’m the one blows you up. Your boss just gets there first.”

  He turns the other way, talks to the Accountant, “You know how it works. Evidence gets lost, people lose their memories. The lieutenant? He’s a captain now. Our friend here? Long road back, way I hear it. Ridlin sticks it out. Works his way back into the Dicks. Robbery. Narcotics. Then Homicide. Where he starts. And his first case? Getting ready to stare Mr. C. in the face. With me standing behind him. All over again.”

  “Ken?” Amatucci asks.

  “The report said the evidence was contradictory and inconclusive,” I say.

  The Cleaner clears his throat.

  “And I know him, too,” he says. “The piano player.”

  Amatucci stands up. “I know you. You’re the traffic cop who pulled me out of the 1812 Club, and walked me into the arms of the two whack jobs who fucked up my hand.”

  “I’m talking about the other piano player. Him I know, too.”

  We turn to Landreau. He is standing next to Amelia. They have joined us while we are talking.

  “Isn’t that right, piano player?” the Cleaner asks.

  Landreau looks up. The toe of his left foot is tapping some weird kind of rhythm. I look over at the Cleaner. His right foot is tapping the same rhythm.

 
We all look at the floor, as if there is some answer there. The weight of the past becoming present hangs over the room until Amatucci stands up, says, “I need some air,” and the rest of them follow him out onto the deck, single file.

  It is just the Accountant, the Cleaner, and me.

  I sit in the big chair facing them. Slowly, the two of them fall asleep where they sit. My own eyes start to get heavy. The coffee has turned to sludge in my veins. Images start to peck at my brain. I see the carousel at the Nickelodeon, all the mechanical instruments on the walls. I hear the slaps of imaginary gunfire, and each one makes my body twitch. I hear shouting but cannot understand the words. My head is pounding but my limbs are numb. A ragged sleep begins to overtake me. My last image is of the bandstand at the Nickelodeon spinning faster and faster until it throws us all over the side.

  CHAPTER 64

  Vinnie Amatucci

  At the Nickelodeon Club

  Monday, January 27

  At around five o’clock, we roused ourselves, used the bathrooms, and shrugged into our coats. As Akiko and Laura stepped through the doorway, they were framed by a split sky: the sun was setting in the west over Akiko’s shoulder and a thick bank of black clouds was backing in from the east toward Laura.

  Ridlin had handcuffed our two captives’ inside wrists together, and then handcuffed their outside wrists to the grab handles above the doors of his car. Just like that, they were secure.

  As we were loading up, Amelia strode out of the house with Jack half-hidden behind her and turned toward Ridlin. We clustered around and looked up at them.

  “I can’t see the purpose in us coming, Detective. If Giuseppe is actually going to be there, my presence can only stir him up. And having Franco there…We’re no good to you, worse than no good to you. If you still need me as a bargaining chip, I’m right here,” she said.

  To me, it was instantly obvious. She was right; they would be a provocation, separately or together. Having them was one thing. Bringing them was another.

  I looked at Jack, Franco, whoever. He was looking out across the lake.

  Then he turned, dropped Amelia’s hand, walked around her and said, “No, I’m going.”

  Amelia held her hand to her chest.

  He looked at her. “I can’t hide anymore. It’s time to stop running…”

  She stared straight at him with a look I couldn’t read. Then she shivered once, turned around, and walked into the house.

  The door closed behind her. There was nothing more to say. We piled into the cars, backed out of the cut, and headed out, with me in the lead.

  After a couple of days of warming, the temperature was dropping, and the Hawk was coming in off the lake. I had my coat buttoned up to my neck and the heat jacked up to full blast, but I still felt cold to the point of shivering.

  Laura and Akiko were in the backseat, but they weren’t talking. Akiko was huddled against the door on the right, watching the sun go down. Laura was sitting straight up on the left, watching the storm roll in. I was looking straight ahead and glancing in the rearview mirror.

  By the time we reached the highway, the sky was full of clouds, roiling higher as the warmer air off the lake was sucked into the colder cumulous sky. I switched on my lights and tested the wipers with a flick.

  It was going to start snowing again, soon, and snowing hard.

  The miles flew past, and we cruised down the Tri-State and bent east on the Kennedy and wove south on the Ryan, and soon we were back in Indiana, winding through the maze of streets toward the club. When we pulled into the parking lot, there was only one car there, an old beat-up Buick the color of diarrhea. Ridlin got out of his car, motioned to us to wait, walked up the steps and knocked on the door. It opened and he went in. Less than a minute later, the owner, the beefy guy with the ZZ Top beard, rambled out and headed to his car, flipping through a roll of bills. I couldn’t tell from where I sat if he had it in a Chicago roll or an L.A. roll. He wedged himself into the Buick, then started it up and sliced through the crease in the tall grass. Ridlin came out, walked to his car, uncuffed the Accountant and the Cleaner, and walked them inside. The rest of us got out and followed.

  Ridlin walked them onto the bandstand, found two folding chairs, and sat them facing each other around the pole in the center of the carousel. He cuffed their free hands together, so they sat right hand to left hand, left hand to right, like maids around a maypole.

  Laura and Akiko sat facing away from each other, on the edge of the bandstand. Jack walked along the wall, inspecting the player instruments, his face close up against them, his hands behind his back. It was only nine o’clock; we had three hours to kill. I looked for a thermostat, found it, and cranked the heat up to seventy-four. I was still shivering.

  Ridlin split us up for sentry duty. He put his foot up on a chair, rolled up his left cuff, and unstrapped a small revolver, which he handed to Landreau. “You watch those two,” he said. “Don’t shoot them unless you have to.”

  I had assumed that Laura and Akiko and I were all going to be on sentry duty, but Ridlin told Laura to stay inside. I grabbed my hat and coat and headed out the door.

  I gave the place a perimeter of about thirty yards and went around clockwise, keeping my eyes open, letting my ears get tuned in. After three laps I veered off my path to go to the trunk of my car, unzip the gym bag, take out the gun, and slide it inside my cast. It wasn’t comfortable, but comfort wasn’t my priority. Ten minutes into my shift, fat snowflakes began to fall, lazily at first, then harder. By the time my thirty minutes were up, the snow was coming down sideways. There was no sound except the whistling of the wind and it gave the place an eerie stillness.

  Akiko came through the door, surprised by the snow, and pulled up her collar. She wasn’t wearing a hat; I don’t think she even owned one. I went inside and slid behind the bar to put some coffee on. I busied myself finding the grounds and pouring the water, letting my fingers thaw. The Accountant and the Cleaner had moved their chairs closer together so they could rest their hands on their knees. The Cleaner looked pale. Ridlin was checking for back doors.

  When the coffee was ready, I offered some all around. Ridlin took his black. Landreau and the Cleaner both passed. The Accountant wanted lots of cream and lots of sugar. As I mixed it for him he kept saying, “Just a touch more, Vincent, if you please.” I had mine black, with sugar. It was basic American coffee, but just then it tasted great.

  I was finishing my first cup when Ridlin pointed at his watch. It was ten o’clock. I got my hat and coat and headed out the door. As I passed Akiko on the porch, I muttered, “Fresh coffee, behind the bar,” and she nodded. She wasn’t much of a coffee drinker, but on a night like this she’d pour a cup just for the warmth of it.

  At the next changeover, Ridlin called us. “They may be early, so stay alert. They may come in with their lights out, so keep your eyes and ears open.” We nodded and went back to it.

  The hours passed, with no sign of anyone. When I looked at my watch, it was twenty minutes past midnight. “They’re late,” I said. “It must be the storm. The roads are probably all fucked up.”

  He nodded, and returned his gaze to the window. “Either that,” he said, “or they’re letting us stew, waiting for us to get edgy.”

  “If that’s what they’re doing,” I said, “it’s working.”

  I poured some more coffee, took a sip, and immediately went off to find the men’s room. I stood by the urinal, leaning my cast on the wall in front of me, and pissed for what felt like an eternity. It was the coffee, it was the nerves; I was like a sponge being squeezed in a vise.

  At twelve-thirty I grabbed my hat and coat and headed to the door. Akiko saw me right away and hustled inside. The snow had piled up, and was now three or four inches deep, with drifts against the side of the club more than a foot deep. By this point, we had worn a groove around the building, and I just followed it. I kept my eyes on the perimeter, peering into the storm. There was nothing, there was
no one, just a stream of white streaks riding the wind.

  One o’clock came and Akiko spelled me, then one-thirty, and I was back outside. At one fifty-five I saw a shaft of light through the tall grass, and jogged toward the club sideways as I kept my eyes on it. When I got to the porch Akiko was already there—she must have seen the lights—and she grabbed my arm, the good one, and held me tight. We backed up the stairs and crossed the porch. The lights were closer, and Ridlin was standing behind us in the doorway. We stood there and watched as the lights and the car they were attached to fishtailed into the parking lot and groaned to a stop.

  It was black, a Lincoln Town Car. It sat there, revving, the wipers fighting the snow. Ridlin tapped us on the shoulder and said, “Inside. Let’s go.”

  We backed through the door, closing it after us.

  Laura was sitting in a booth near the bandstand and Akiko walked over and sat down next to her and took her hand. Maybe it was symbolism of a sort, or maybe it was just comfort.

  Ten seconds later the front door opened and two men walked in.

  The first was Giuseppe Della Chiesa, the Boss of all Bosses, the Big Guy.

  He wasn’t actually all that big, maybe five-foot-seven or so. But he was barrel-chested, not fat but wide, and was impeccably dressed, in a dark charcoal two-button suit, black cashmere overcoat, white shirt with a straight collar, burgundy shoes and belt, and a maroon silk tie. He wore a white silk scarf under the topcoat, a thin pair of what looked like black calfskin driving gloves on his hands, and a black fedora pulled down over his steel-gray hair. He could have been a banker or a lawyer or a captain of industry: the suit was conservative, but perfectly tailored. Armani, or Zegna. Bespoke, not off the rack.

  His nephew, Johnny Chase, was also well-dressed, but in the more modern style, with gray flat-front slacks, a black three-button blazer, and a black silk mock turtleneck beneath it. He had black half boots on his feet, and what looked like the same black driving gloves as his uncle. No scarf for him, no coat, no hat. His wavy black hair was frosted with snow.

  The Don immediately walked over to the Cleaner, put his hand on his shoulder, and leaned down. “Relax, my friend. This is no fault of yours. We will have you out of this shortly.” The Cleaner just dipped his head. The Accountant, looking expectant, looked up at the Don, who gave him back a withering glance of contempt, which forced his eyes back to the floor.