“I got there first,” Timothy said, miming taking a shot out the window. “I don’t like to leave guns laying around, man.”
“You going to leave that one,” Virgil said. When he straightened his form in front of Timothy he towered above him. “You going to leave it right up here. You one hothead, crazy Rasta nigger, and you ain’t going down there with no piece. We trying to end a war here, not start one.”
Genuinely startled, Timothy backed into his bedroom. “I don’t get you, Virgil. This man bring the shit almost killed you when you stuck it in your arm. You don’t want to kill him, you the one crazy.”
But in the face of Virgil’s stony silence, Timothy shoved the revolver under his pillow. Virgil had more to say, but Hannibal’s voice called from the walkie-talkie he had left in the kitchen.
“Hello upstairs? You guys going to eat with the rest of us, or what?”
By the time Virgil and Timothy walked in, everything was set for dinner and all the other men were assembled. Among other little amenities, Cindy had brought a second card table with her this time. After moving both into Hannibal’s front room, she had set places for the six men and herself. Ronzini sat alone in a front corner. Hannibal saw Timothy staring at him as he joined Ray and Quaker at the table. It was not a long stare, but Ronzini reacted, almost as if he recognized Timothy. Hannibal was already chilled by the smile on Timothy’s face, when the man pointed an index finger at Ronzini, and winked his right eye while making a “tsk” sound out the side of his mouth. Timothy had mimed shooting the man.
As soon as the last two men arrived, Cindy carried the largest pan out and started ladling rice and chicken onto tripled paper plates. No one had chosen the chair at the end. Whether by design or accident, Hannibal was left with the head of the table. He draped his jacket over the back of his chair, sat down with Sarge on his right. Cindy’s purse was in the chair on his left. He concluded that the seating was no accident.
“Excuse me, Jones,” Ronzini called from his place in a corner. “You snatched me on my way to dinner. Do I get to eat?”
“Of course, pimp,” Cindy answered, without looking up. “You’re our guest. I just don’t want you at the table with me.” When her man and his friends were served, Cindy filled a plate for Ronzini and handed it to him.
After Cindy sat, everyone mumbled thanks to her and launched into the food. The paella was not as spicy as Hannibal would have liked, but it was still delicious with the flavors of garlic and saffron fighting for dominance. The atmosphere seemed a little strained. Hannibal hoped for some pleasant dinner conversation. As if she had read his thoughts, Cindy kicked it off.
“I don’t know about anyone else, but I’ve had quite a busy day,” she said. “As you may have noticed, I’ve taken care of all the kitchen equipment you’ll need, if any of you ever get up the heart to cook something. I got you a new cordless phone, Hannibal, after yours was slagged in the apartment fire. And for all you animals, towels and shower curtains for all the bathrooms.”
“And they all work now,” Timothy said with pride. “Every sink in every bathroom and kitchen, every bathtub, and most importantly, every toilet in the building. All working perfectly now.”
“How about you, Quaker?” Hannibal asked around a mouthful of chicken. “How’s our security?”
“Solid,” Quaker said, one eye on Ronzini. “Every first floor window’s got bars now, and all the doors got dead bolt locks.”
Not to be overshadowed, Virgil said, “Wiring work’s done too. Not only do all the building’s lights work, but I’ve brought the entire structure up to code.”
Hannibal said “Really? That’s more than I could have hoped for. That means the client won’t have to bring in an electrical contractor after all, and the city won’t give us any trouble about renting the place out.” He could not help but notice the evident pride on those three men’s faces. This job, he reflected, was presenting an unexpected bumper crop of pleasant side effects. Then he realized not everyone had gotten his chance to crow.
“I don’t want anyone to think Sarge has been sitting this one out,” Hannibal said. “He’s kept an eye on security so everybody else could work in peace.”
“Yeah, but I might be out of a job soon,” Sarge said. “In case nobody noticed, we just got through our first completely uneventful night and day. Twenty-four hours without any uninvited guests trying to get in or any kind of assault on the building. Hannibal told us what happened to your boss, Cindy, and I don’t want to minimize that, but maybe it means something. Maybe making that move on Balor means the little pusher finally gave up on threatening us.”
“Say, Jones.” Ronzini set his bone laden plate aside. “Can we talk a minute?”
Hannibal turned his chair toward his captive, but remained silent. With dinner finished, he pulled his black gloves back on and slid his shades around his face. Somehow, it made him feel more centered. Ronzini seemed unruffled by recent events. He was too calm for his liking, too much in control.
When he had Hannibal’s attention, Ronzini turned his own to Cindy. “You’re a good cook, miss. Do you mind if I smoke?”
With all the irony she could muster, Cindy turned a stern look on Ronzini. “Smoke? I don’t care if you burn. In fact, if the justice system ever gets hold of you…”
“That’s enough, Cindy.” Hannibal did not want to appear less in control than his prisoner. “As you said, this man is our guest.” Then he turned to Ronzini. “So, you got something to say?”
Moving slowly, Ronzini pulled a cigar from inside his suit coat and lit it. “Seems to me you figure I know all about what’s going on here. I don’t. I think it’d be fair for me to know why you snatched me. Once I know the whole story, maybe I can give you what you want and we can all go about our business.” He ventured an easy smile, and Hannibal could not help but return it.
“You know, you’re not at all what I expected,” Hannibal said.
“What did you expect, Al Capone?” Cindy asked, standing. “This ain’t the roaring twenties, babe. His kind keep a legal front these days. They get all refined, maybe get into politics. It’s all bullshit.”
“Jocinta Yelina!” Ray snapped, and all heads turned toward his florid face. He launched a spate of rapid fire Spanish only one person present could follow. Although her breathing rate doubled, Cindy made no response. When her father finished, she piled the dirty utensils into the pan and carried it off into the kitchen, stomping like a chastised child. Everyone in the room seemed embarrassed during the long silence that followed.
“She’s a lawyer,” Hannibal told Ronzini, as if that explained everything. “As for why you’re here, I want your son to leave me and my friends alone, and I figure you’re the perfect bargaining chip to accomplish that.”
“Just what is the conflict between yourself and Salvatore?” Ronzini asked, leaning back in the folding chair.
“Conflict is, two weeks ago this here was a crack house and a shooting gallery your son supplied,” Ray said.
“Ain’t no more,” Sarge added.
Ronzini considered all this before asking, “How did Dan Balor get involved in this?”
“You know him?” Hannibal asked.
“Know of him,” Ronzini answered. “He’s a lawyer too, bit of a crusader. He put you up to trying to take over this dump?”
“He owns the place,” Quaker put in. “Man tries to take back what he paid good dollars for and gets beat up for it. Sucks, don’t it?”
“So let’s see if I get this,” Ronzini said. “You moved in, expecting whoever the pusher was to just go away, only he puts up a fight. You boys resist, maybe hurt one of his flunkies. And he goes after the owner?”
“That’s about the size of it,” Hannibal said. “I figured since he plays by his own rules, I’d just go out and get myself some bargaining power.”
“So all you want is, he moves his operation somewhere else?” Ronzini asked, as if he was a diplomat just wanting to be sure about all negotiatin
g points. “You ain’t trying to bring him in or nothing?”
“I’m getting tired of telling people I ain’t a cop,” Hannibal said behind an exasperated sigh. “I just want some people to be able to rent in this place without fear of any repercussions.”
“Maybe this thing’s no big deal,” Virgil told Hannibal. “Maybe the old man, he just tells the boy to go away.”
Ronzini was apparently considering just such an option when the telephone bell’s raucous jangle drew everyone’s attention. When Hannibal stood to answer it, Sarge headed for the front desk, while Quaker and Timothy moved toward the back. After working with professional security personnel for half a dozen years, Hannibal appreciated these men’s dedication and rapidly developed professionalism. He was thinking of them when he put the telephone receiver to his ear.
“You got my papa in there, spook?”
Hannibal’s eyelids vanished and his breath froze in his throat when he heard Sal Ronzini’s voice.
“How’d you get this number?” Hannibal asked in a low, menacing voice. He did not want to think about any more pain being visited on Dan Balor.
“You got my Papa in there?”
“How’d you get this number?” Hannibal repeated, a bit louder.
“You cock sucker, you got my father in there?” Sal shouted.
“How’d you get this number, you little bitch?” This time Hannibal’s rage met with silence. Mumbling filtered through, as if Sal had covered the phone to talk to somebody else. When he returned, he sounded calmer.
“All right,” Sal said through clenched teeth. “Papa’s muscle, they seen you and the Rican guy. They gave me descriptions and I figured it had to be you. Nobody could forget a name like yours, so I just called information and got the number. Now. Enough bullshit. Is my father in there or not? Come on, he ain’t got nothing to do with this.”
“He’s here,” Hannibal said. “And he don’t look like Balor, either.”
“Who? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t shit me, man,” Hannibal said. “I know it was you. But this is between you and me, dig?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I dig,” Sal said. There was another pause, but this time Hannibal knew that Sal was just thinking, planning. Finally he said, “Can I talk to him?”
Progress, Hannibal thought. He was asking. Hannibal handed the older man the receiver, watching his face as he talked with his son.
“I’m fine Salvatore,” Ronzini said, “but I don’t like getting mixed up in your little business, eh? You know, these six guys have done a lot of work in this slum building. Yeah, and the Spanish girl cooked us something. No, they’re not waving guns at me. Only the leader, Jones, has a…”
Feeling stupidly slow, Hannibal snatched the phone from Ronzini’s hand. It had taken him a few seconds to realize that the older Ronzini was more of a poker player than his son.
“That’s enough, Sally,” Hannibal said. “Now we deal. You’re going to have to give this place up, and leave my people be.”
“I ain’t got to do shit, spook,” Sal screamed. “What you got to do is let my papa go, or you’re a dead man.” Hannibal heard a sudden click, and imagined Sal had slammed the phone down. He stood staring out a front window, holding the dead phone. Darkness was settling at last, lights coming on in the windows facing him.
He was prepared for any response, any answer except total refusal. Ronzini, rather than trying to talk sense to his son, had tried to give him as much information as he could. Hannibal had to face the fact that he had misread the situation, and was not really sure what he should do next. He needed to control his hostage and maybe get some information from him. But Ronzini would never talk on his own, and Hannibal did not think he could beat or torture anyone.
“Put your foot in a bear trap,” Ronzini said. “Now, there’s no nice way out. Why don’t you just let me go? I’ll tell Salvatore to leave you alone long enough for you to blow town, and I don’t think he cares about these other guys.”
Hannibal dropped back into his chair and spun toward Ronzini, leaning forward.
“You are too smart, too reasonable to be in this. I can’t see you as a bent nose. How’d you get into this business anyway?”
Ronzini crossed his legs and puffed his cigar, adding to the thick cloud of smoke hanging just above his head. “You know, son, when I was a kid back in Brooklyn I started stealing to help my mother feed my little brothers. When I got a little older, I found out I could make more money helping girls find dates.”
“Yeah? Lots of brothers get lazy and get a string of hookers, just like you did.” Virgil said. “I known a lot of them in that trade. Some got a lot of flash, fancy cars, clothes, jewelry and that kind of stuff, but I don’t know even one that’s getting rich.”
“It was a different time,” Ronzini said. “Cops didn’t really care, and I was part of my community. Later, I found several profitable enterprises I could become involved in that didn’t require no high school diploma, if you know what I mean. Later on, I found out there’s legal things like that too. All you need is the drive.”
“Well if you done so good, how come you didn’t get your boy in college?” Ray asked, looking over Hannibal’s shoulder. “I mean, I ain’t nobody, and I ain’t got nothing, but I got my little girl through law school.”
Ronzini’s eyes receded into the past. For a moment, Hannibal thought he could see the real man. “I sent Salvatore to Harvard,” Ronzini said. “He just couldn’t…he’s a little wild. Wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps. Do you blame a boy for that? I set him up, got him going, but I don’t really know nothing about his operations.”
“I know you were into whores and gambling at one time,” Hannibal said, “but your boy Sally’s pushing poison to a pretty young clientele that don’t know no better.”
“Every one of them knows better,” Ronzini said. He sat forward, waving his short cigar for emphasis. “When I was a kid people wanted to gamble, and they wanted to have whores, and I took care of it. I filled a need. I never did the drug thing, but people want them and that’s the need Salvatore decided to fill. Nobody ever gets his arm twisted to smoke a pipe or stick a needle in his arm. There’s two kinds of people in this world. There’s weak people and there’s strong people. You know that Jones. Weak people like to gamble. They like to buy women. And they like drugs.”
“So you just figure all the weak people’s Latino, or black, is that it?” Ray asked, stepping close enough to be all Ronzini saw.
“I don’t know,” Ronzini slowly stood up. “You tell me why most of Salvatore’s customers ain’t white.”
Ray and Ronzini looked like boys in a schoolyard to Hannibal. He thought they were about to get physical when he heard an authoritative knock at the door. A stern, aggressive voice spoke the one word he was not prepared to hear.
“Police.”
-35-
In the hall, Sarge looked to Hannibal for guidance. Hannibal held up his palm, instructing his friend to wait. Then he handed Ray his gun, pointed at Ronzini, and pulled on his jacket to cover his holster. Ray sat five feet from Ronzini, pointing the gun at his gut. Virgil sat on the front windowsill, his billy club poised.
“Virgil, if he makes a sound, cave in his teeth.” Hannibal ran into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him.
Sarge held the shotgun under the desk, but still pointed forward, as Hannibal leaned against the door.
“Who’s there?” Hannibal called.
“Officers Johnson, Webster and D’Angelo, Metro Police,” the voice said. With a deep breath, Hannibal flipped the bolt off and opened the door a crack. He saw three uniformed white men. Behind them, a police car stood parked behind his own. Their faces were serious but carried that bored, tired look police so often have when sent on missions they consider pointless.
“How can I help you gentlemen?” Hannibal asked, opening the door another foot or so.
“Got a report of a kidnapping, Mister…”
“Jones,” Hannibal said. His eyes shifted left and right, checking the street for other watchers. “Can we exchange identification?”
“Why don’t we do that inside?” Officer Johnson asked sharply. “I think what you really want to see is this search warrant.” Johnson handed Hannibal a folded court document and stepped past him. “Save yourself some problems, boy. You got a Mister Anthony Ronzini in here?”
Hannibal waved his three visitors in, reflexively locked the door behind them before rushing to get ahead of them, cracking the door to his front room.
“Pocket that,” he told Ray, then turned around. “I want it understood that my disagreement with Mr. Ronzini is personal. I’m in this alone.”
“That’s lawyer business,” Johnson said. “My job is to make sure this Mister Ronzini is safe.”
Hannibal stood, stunned, as the three men filed past him. He never suspected that Sal might try the simple expedient of calling in the authorities. Yes, Hannibal could be charged with kidnapping. But during a long, messy trial, he would bring up the illegal activities both Ronzinis were involved in, and could summon a long line of witnesses. A huge spotlight would focus on them, certainly crippling their crooked businesses. It was hard to believe the boy might love his father so much that he would use the safest means to assure his safe return.
Ray and Virgil stood back, as startled as Hannibal, while two of the officers helped Ronzini to his feet.
“You are Anthony Ronzini?” Officer Johnson asked.
“I am.”
“And are you all right, sir?” the cop asked.
“I’m fine, officer,” Ronzini said, but he would not make eye contact with them. Hannibal thought that maybe he felt embarrassed to be saved by the police.
No. Ronzini had not avoided anyone’s eyes since Hannibal picked him up at gun point. But he must have had some real reason for not facing these simple patrolmen.
It was all happening so quickly that Hannibal might not have questioned it all if not for that. Now he wondered why no detectives accompanied them. For that matter, why no FBI personnel? Kidnapping is their business, after all.
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