Hardware

by Linda Barnes

  “I’d love to give you up.”

  “My dad would shelter me.”

  “Too bad you didn’t just steal from him. You had to hit the Gianellis, the New York families. Jesus.”

  I called for Roz and Lauren to come back downstairs. Joey hunched over the computer for fifteen minutes. I’ve never seen anyone type half that fast.

  “Okay. That’s it. You happy?” he said.

  I said, “Sam’s legs are gonna hurt for a long time. If somebody doesn’t kill him first.”

  “Look at the screen,” he said. “Is that beautiful or what?”

  This time he hadn’t asked if I wanted access.

  It seemed to be an index:

  BANKAMER.ZIP 6809 06-11-94 Hacking Bank America

  TAOTRASH.DOC 7645 09-04-94 Trashing

  CITIBANK.ZIP 43556 06-06-94 Hacking Citibank

  It went on, screen after screen.

  “Not as good as the old days,” Joey said. “Not up to Legion of Doom standards.”

  “Legion of Doom?” Roz repeated.

  “Used to be you could access hundreds of dark-side files. How to make your own weapons. How to kill somebody’s credit rating. You want revenge, there’s no better way.”

  “Wipe it off,” I said.

  “It’s out there,” he said.

  “It’ll always be out there.”

  “I’ll always be out there,” I said. “You take the cash and leave the country and consider yourself lucky to be alive. You try to fuck with me or Sam or Lauren, your photo will be distributed to every police force in the world. With fingerprints, aliases, the whole nine yards.”

  “Too bad somebody figured the cash flow so soon,” he said. “Came down so hard. I really thought Sam’s dad would pull his ass out of the fire. Honest.”

  “Sure. I believe every word you say, Joey. The thing is, making Sam’s dad believe everything you say.”

  “You gonna give me to old man Gianelli?”

  “Tear a clean sheet of paper off the printer.”

  “Why?”

  “Do it! I want a handwritten confession, exonerating Sam. Now! You don’t need to sign it.”

  “Who do I write it to? ‘Dear Carlotta’?”

  I raised the gun half an inch. “‘To whom it may concern,’” I said.

  He tried to stare me down. No dice. He scribbled a few hasty lines. Roz fetched it, keeping out of the line of fire. It would do.

  “If you count me out,” Joey said, “do you know who tried to ice Sam?”

  “I think so,” I said. “Yeah. Definitely. A guy who knows money. A guy who lied to me.”

  “You gonna call the cops?” he asked.

  “It’s a little complicated. Roz, copy all the G and W files—before and after—on floppies.”

  “Duplicate disks, yeah. And a holographic confession. Bank vault,” Joey said. “For insurance.”

  “I’ve got someplace better than a bank vault,” I said. “Roz, when you’re done, tie Mr. Frascatti again. Do a great job on his arms. Leave his legs till he climbs upstairs. The blue room, the one with the big closet that locks. Put him in with my prom dress. No phone calls.”

  Before I left, I made sure he was secure.

  “Roz,” I said, “since he’s posing so nicely, holding still and all, take some photos—mug shots, profile—before you lock the door. Remember to bag the glass he used for his O.J. We can print it later.”

  “What if he needs to take a leak?” she asked.

  “Stick an empty Poland Springs bottle in there.”

  Nothing but the best for my houseguests.

  FORTY-ONE

  “Do you know, or are you bluffing?” Roz asked as soon as we’d reassembled, minus Joey, in the living room.

  “Thanks for that show of confidence,” I said. “Roz, remember our buddies at Sam’s apartment?”

  She smiled an evil smile. “Probably not as well as they remember me.”

  “You think they have police records?”

  “Is there justice in the world?”

  I shrugged. It was still worth a try.

  “I have to pay a visit, Roz, show some respect. While I’m gone, I want you to give this your best shot. There’s this creep cop named Oglesby,” I said, thinking out loud. “Organized Crime Task Force. No, forget him. You’d have better luck doing this through Mooney. Tell Moon you want mug shots. Gianelli goons.”

  “And why do I want them?”

  I closed my eyes. Mooney would certainly ask.

  “Be creative, Roz. Tell him one of them followed you home, I don’t care. If you recognize either of our friends from Sam’s, keep a poker face, get as much info as you can, but say you’re not sure.”

  “Okay,” she said tentatively. “I follow.”

  I said, “Roz, this is urgent, so give me your undivided. Get a name for one of our goons. A name and a phone number. Call him, and do the bimbo routine.”

  “I don’t think either of those guys is gonna want to talk to me,” Roz said. “I kicked them where it hurts.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “but you’ve got bargaining chips. You took home these little computer thingies by mistake, instead of your lace bikinis, and you wonder if maybe the computer junk is worth some bucks. Let him make an offer. He’ll want to call back, find out who you are. Don’t let him. Do it from phone booths. Different phone booths. Dicker over price. He’ll want to meet. He’ll want a private place, so he can do a little violent payback. You want public. Stall and stall and stall.”

  “Fun,” she said. “You?”

  “I’m gonna have fun, too,” I said. “Don’t worry about me.”

  Lauren, who’d been immobile and quiet almost to the point of catatonia till now, said, “Roz is leaving. You’re leaving. You expect me to stay here alone? With Joey in the closet?”

  I wanted to point out that she was either alone or with Joey in the closet. Instead, noting her pallor and the shakiness in her voice, I said, “Why not take some time and visit a historical site? If you’re not into Paul Revere’s house, the Museum of Fine Arts is nice.”

  “I could visit Sam,” she said in a small voice.

  I called a cab to fetch her. I didn’t care if she went to the museum or the zoo, as long as she wasn’t around to turn Joey loose. I made a point of asking Roz to lock up after Lauren left.

  “Make sure you turn the dead bolt,” I said.

  “You’re going to leave him in a closet?” Now Lauren sounded both confused and skeptical.

  “Maybe you’d better visit Sam,” I said harshly. “Pay particular attention to his legs, Lauren. I’d dump your precious Joey in places that make my closet look like a suite at the Ritz-Carlton.”

  They wouldn’t shoot me on sight, I thought as I drove through the winding streets of the North End. Papa Gianelli might spit on the ground and cross himself, but he’d hardly have me executed.

  I found a parking place near St. Cecilia’s. God’s will or good luck. I patted the .40, snug in my waistband.

  I wondered which of the loiterers I passed on my way to the Gianelli house would mention my presence first, crooning softly into the walkie-talkie concealed in his wino’s paper bag. My neck prickled the way it does when I feel I’m under surveillance. How many top-floor apartments did the Gianellis own on this block? How many soldiers held the fort? Ever since the Angiulo brothers took the big fall from their Prince Street boardroom, North End underbosses have been on full alert.

  I put some extra swing into my hip action. Give the guys something to look at. It would have played better in L.A. Boston in December, life’s hard. Alluring doesn’t come in layers from the L. L. Bean catalog.

  On the other hand, layers covered the package I was carrying.

  Gianelli central is a grand five-story corner brick, laced with ornamental ironwork balconies. Could be apartments, but it’s all Anthony’s personal living space. First floor looks like a respectable commercial establishment. Marble foyer. Single narrow staircase partially blocked by a re
gulation wooden desk. The second floor is astonishing, an art deco hallway leading to a kitchen that would do credit to a five-star restaurant. Two elevators, front and rear, key access only, lead to the rest of the house. Sam brought me here once, long ago, when every other family member was safely out of town.

  A uniformed guard from rent-a-cop manned the desk. He was window dressing; the Gianellis didn’t need anybody who charged above minimum wage for the job. By the time you approached the building, you’d been photographed, “made” if you were a cop, urged along the road if you happened to be a misguided Jehovah’s Witness or hapless Greenpeace volunteer.

  No one accosted me on the steps. Go figure. Women seem to throw the wiseguys off step. They don’t know how to call it, even now, after quite a few of the Angiulo strike force turned out to be female. I could be a call girl, right?

  I didn’t think Papa’d be on the prowl for an outcall “date,” but maybe Tony Junior, handsome Hollywood Tony, had a taste for purchased flesh.

  I flashed a grin at the guard, who glanced up hastily from a magazine.

  There were TV cameras in the four corners of the lobby. Circular mounts on either side of the stairway hinted at infrared beams. And those were just the visible devices.

  “Miss Carlyle,” I said sweetly. “For Mr. Gianelli, Senior.”

  “Appointment?” The guard was flustered, but he managed to scratch my name on a pad.

  “He’ll see me,” I said.

  “I, uh, don’t believe he’s in at the moment.”

  “I don’t think he goes out much,” I replied.

  “His, uh, son—”

  “His son’s in the hospital. I know. I just came from there. With an update.”

  “You’re a friend of his son’s?”

  I started to run out of patience. I can only do the breathy young thing for a limited run. It wasn’t working, so I switched to brusque. “Phone. Tell him I’m here. It doesn’t matter if I’m a district attorney. Just mention my name and tell him I have something to give him.”

  “Wait outside, please.”

  “It’s cold.”

  “I can’t call unless you wait outside. Policy.”

  A good soldier, for all his paunch. If this guy’d been on duty at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, they’d still have the Vermeer.

  “You have another name besides Carlyle?” he asked.

  I offered him one of my cards. I should have known I’d never get through to the old man.

  I waited on the stoop long enough to wish I’d worn earmuffs and gloves. I try not to scoop them out of mothballs till Christmas, but this season was shaping up killer cold.

  The guard left his station and motioned me inside.

  “Upstairs,” he said.

  I felt light-headed with disbelief. I started rehearsing my speech.

  “Leave the gun,” the guard said.

  “Metal detector?” I asked.

  He nodded pleasantly. At his behest, I stuck the .40 in a drawer that already contained a Taurus .22, two Glock 9s, and a .357 Magnum. No way my gun would get lonely.

  “You want me to tag it?” I asked, amazed by the small arsenal.

  “I’ll remember,” he said. “Nice piece.”

  I bounded up the steps. Made it all the way to the second floor.

  The blond woman who’d clung to Papa’s arm blocked the ornate hallway. The third wife, the fourth wife? Stacey? No. I remembered Sam’s dismissive laughter. “Stella!” he’d called her, imitating Brando.

  The blonde looked like she might be imitating a movie star too. A soap opera diva. I took in the tight white sweater with rhinestones, the second-skin black stirrup pants. She was probably drenched in scent, but all I could smell was the cigarette smoke trailing from a butt in her taloned hand. I breathed deeply, sucking down my ration of second-hand ecstasy.

  “What do you want?” she said.

  That’s the Boston Mob for you. Send a woman to talk to a woman. I almost asked for a cigarette. Five years on the wagon and I’m ready to topple anytime.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you,” I said earnestly. “The guard must have made a mistake. I need to talk to your father.”

  “He’s not my—”

  “I know,” I said with a smile. “But he could be.”

  “Get out.”

  “I have information—”

  “So you’re Sam’s piece of the action, huh?” She looked me over from stem to stern. “He could sure do better, that boy.” Her voice was pure southern syrup. I couldn’t tell if the accent was real, any more than I could tell if blond was her natural color or double D her God-given chest size.

  “We could all do better, Mrs. Gianelli,” I said, trying to keep a straight face. “I’m sorry if I insulted you. I only meant that you look very young.”

  “Thank you,” she said uncertainly.

  “I know your husband has had a bad week. I know he’s an old, uh, older man. I won’t take much of his time.”

  “Maybe you could see Mitch or Tony.”

  I said, “I don’t think you’re hearing what I’m saying.”

  “I don’t think you get it, hon. No is no. You can’t see him.”

  “Life and death,” I said.

  “For who?”

  I didn’t bother correcting her grammar. “His son,” I said.

  “His sons are grown men. They handle their own lives.”

  “He cares about them,” I said. “Grown men or not.”

  “He’s not well; he can’t be disturbed,” she said.

  “Let him make the decision himself. Don’t you owe him that?”

  “Wait here,” she said coldly. She swayed to the end of the hall, stopped before a brass-and-glass table, opened a rosewood box, extracted a telephone receiver. Punched buttons.

  “Life and death,” I called after her.

  She spoke for some time, then waved the instrument at me. I hastened to take it.

  “Mr. Gianelli?”

  The voice was raw and angry. “You’d think I could send one bitch to talk to another. Wouldn’t you say that was a reasonable assumption?”

  He’s an old man, I reminded myself. My hand tightened on the receiver.

  “We should do this face-to-face,” I said.

  “I’ll have you thrown out,” he countered.

  “I think I know who tried to kill Sam.”

  “Think? You think? Tell me when you really know.”

  “Mr. Gianelli—”

  “My son gets himself blown the hell up with colored people. How does that make me look? In the community?”

  “You don’t want to know, do you?” I said. “Or maybe you already know.”

  He spoke in Italian then, and I couldn’t understand anything except the hatred. I waited for a pause in his invective. None came, just the click when he hung up.

  When I’d visited the house two wives ago, a portrait of Sam’s mother hung in the hallway. It was gone without a trace. Not a mark in the perfect white paint.

  I left my package—diskettes and confession—with the guard at the door, trading them for my automatic. He made me open the parcel. No exploding envelopes for Papa G.

  “Seems okay,” the guard said.

  “Let me add a little something,” I said.

  “What?” He looked at me like he was expecting folding money to materialize in my hand.

  I borrowed a pen, scrawled a single line on the back of Joey’s confession.

  Ask your accountant it said.

  Then I reassembled the package and told the guard to deliver it to Anthony Senior. To no one but Anthony Gianelli, Senior. In person.

  He seemed uncertain. I dropped a twenty on the floor; his foot covered it before the corner-mounted cameras could record the transaction. We had a deal.

  He shook his head as I left, like a grandfather mourning a grandchild gone wrong.

  FORTY-TWO

  Roz got home a good three hours later than I did. She was cheerful for a woman who’d spent m
ost of her day at the cop house, having successfully ID’d the taller goon, a man with an awesome rap sheet displaying a broad assortment of dismissed felonies. Often, the complainant changed his or her mind about preferring charges. Sometimes the complainant left town hurriedly or disappeared completely.

  Roz can read between the lines. She’d expected to find an intimidator. Even on the phone, he was loud, obnoxious, and threatening. No sense of humor, she complained.

  A meeting was set for tomorrow night at a crowded Faneuil Hall watering hole.

  I’d notify Mooney beforehand. I’d already left the floppies and Joey’s statement for Papa G. I went down a mental list, putting an invisible check against each item. In volleyball terms, the match was mine. Twelve-to-one in the deciding game, my turn at net, and a six-inch advantage over the opposing blocker. No contest.

  Joey Fresh remained in the closet. Lauren was spending the night in the beige room, far down the hall. With so many in the house, I’d begged off when Keith proposed to add one more, even though the extra body would have been warm and welcome, and wouldn’t have taken up much space.

  Keith said he’d succeeded in provoking Gloria to anger; he saw that as progress.

  Sam had a gaggle of undercover police guards.

  Everything under control.

  Except the timing.

  When I heard footsteps in the middle of the night, my first thought was that goddamned Joey had Houdinied himself out of the closet.

  I grabbed the pistol from under my pillow. When I hold captives, I sleep lightly. I keep loaded weapons in unsafe places. Another reason to disappoint Keith.

  Too many voices, low and gutteral. Lauren’s was the sole high note, and she sounded frantic. Lauren wouldn’t be terrified by an escaped Joey Frascatti. She’d still see a nineteen-year-old boy, frightened out of his wits, covered with another kid’s blood.

  Roz slept upstairs alone. I didn’t like the odds.

  I keep my bedroom door closed at night. I slid the bolt home silently. It wouldn’t stop anyone for long. I lifted the phone. Dead, which I expected.

  A professional invasion.

  I yanked on the jeans lying at the foot of my bed, more to have a place to shove the pistol than for decency’s sake. I’d freeze in my tank top, but risking the squeak of a drawer was out of the question.