“But it didn’t come to me, Spinelli.”
“You got enemies in this town, pal,” I went on. “Just ’cause of who your pop is. That makes you a target anywhe . . . what did you say?”
“The chef didn’t give it to me. He gave it to Lulu. It was for her. Oh, God . . . this poison was for her! But why!?”
“Your pop on the outs with Lulu’s?”
“No, Luke and Sonny are fine. They’re great.”
I sat back. Who would want to off Lulu Spencer?
I was quiet a long time; Dante finally spoke up.
“Aren’t we gonna at least go back and talk to someone in there?”
“Don’t need to, pal,” I said. “I learned a lot. And if we start yappin’ and that boss gets a peep at you, someone’s gonna blab that the hit went wrong and now we’re sniffin’ around. I wanna keep this on the QT, see?”
“But what did you hear in there? All I heard was Japanese!”
“What I heard was that we have to get to O’Connor’s investors list. I happen to know that the owners use the First Port Charles Bank and Trust. Maxie and I used to go to O’Connor’s before she wound up in a Hot Night Roll with Yashiro, the rice-maker who was also the accountant before he found himself at the bottom of the harbor—but that’s another story. He told her a lot. Probably shouldn’t have, but it works in our favor. Let’s go.”
The skeleton key worked its usual voodoo on the back door of the bank and I took out the security system before Dante was even out of the Benz. He followed me into an office with a huge row of filing cabinets. I grabbed the flashlight off my utility belt and started lookin’ for the “O’s.”
“Why don’t you just hack into their computer system?” Dante asked.
“Because this bank works the old-fashioned way . . . they keep hard copies of all their files right here. I could try to hack in, but finding a password might take some time, and this way is a lot . . . well, lookee here,” I said, pullin’ a file out of a cabinet. “ ‘O’Connor’s Sushi and Pie.’ Let’s take a peep.”
I rifled through the scraps of paper until I came up with the original documents for the start of the restaurant. And there, right at the top, was exactly what I needed to see.
“What does that say?” I asked Dante, pointing.
“The Corinthos-Morgan Coffee Company owns forty-one percent of the restaurant. But . . . that makes no sense. I already told you; Sonny and Luke are at peace. There’s no reason for my father to put a hit on Lulu.”
“No reason that you know of,” I said. “Let’s go have a chat with your old man.”
The light was comin’ up in the east as we headed toward Sonny “Mister Sir” Corinthos’s compound. There was no answer at the gate. I could tell that Dante was startin’ to slow down; he only had about twelve hours left. I pretty much ordered him to wait in the Benz, promisin’ him I’d bring his father out. Then I disabled the alarm system and scaled the wall. I came around the back way and got in through the living room door. I found . . .
“Oh GOD!” I yelled, waking up the waitress as she leaned against the counter. “You mean this was that time? That was this time? When you found Max and me in Sonny’s living room . . . this is what you were doing?”
“I can see why Mister Sir keeps you in his employ, Brusque and Bellowing One. Nothing gets by you!”
“Well, now I have to know how this turns out.”
Sonny’s mouthpiece . . .
“Watch it.”
“A thousand pardons. May I continue?”
“Tread carefully.”
Sonny’s legal eagle and her boy-toy, Max, asleep on the couch. I tried not to wake ’em, but Lady Law had one eye open.
“I thought you might have been Sonny . . . then I realized there was no way you could be. That’s why Max and I had indulged ourselves on the softest couch in the world! Never mind. Go on. I won’t say another word.”
She gave a shout, which woke up the big guy, and ran into another room. Max woulda pounded me, but good, until he finally realized who I was. I explained why I was there, but alls I could get outta him was that his boss was outta town. He wouldn’t tell me where, at first, but then he slipped up and said Caracas. I asked him to put me down and then I backed outta the house the same way I came.
Back at the car, I told Dante that Sonny had taken a powder with a side of rice and beans. Dante just looked at me, and outta nowhere, a single tear ran outta his blue eye and down his blue cheek.
“I spoke to my father yesterday morning,” he said. “We talked for a good half hour. He asked me how things were going with Lulu, if it was really serious. When I told him it was, he got quiet for a long time. Then he asked what I was doing last night and when I told him we were gonna have sushi, same as every Wednesday, all he said was, ‘Enjoy yourself, son.’ He never mentioned a word about going out of town.”
“For some reason, it looks like your pop wanted Lulu Spencer dead. But I can’t figure why.”
“That’s it, then,” he said. “Dead end.”
“A lot you know, pal,” I shot back, pullin’ the Benz out onto the road. “You may be dyin’, but we ain’t licked yet!”
“Where are you going?”
“We’re gonna go see the man.”
“The man?”
“Shaddup!”
The only person who knew more ’bout Corinthos’s business than he or Stone Cold Morgan or Lady Law Miller was his accountant, Bernie. And we woulda been at Bernie’s in short order, but the Mercedes had a flat at Third and Craft streets. We were downtown but it was still too far to walk to Bernie’s office, and Dante was gettin’ worse by the minute. While we waited for the auto club, I told Dante I’d stand him to a tongue sandwich with lettuce and grape jelly on sourdough at Stacy’s Sandwiches right around the corner. He puked a little, but Falconeri was usually as tough as they came . . . tougher actually . . . so I chalked it up to the poison and led the way. We got back to the car around 11:00 AM, just as the parkin’ cop was puttin’ a boot on the back tire . . . the one the auto club had just replaced.
“What gives?” I said to the copper.
She didn’t say squat; she just turned on her double-wide patootie and walked away. Now I was mad. I was gonna get Dante to Bernie’s, come hell or high water.
I was havin’ trouble gettin’ a taxi; they’d pull up, take one look at Dante, and peel off. I got us to the bus stop and told Dante to turn his back. I shoved him into a seat and paid the fare before the bus driver knew what hit him. Now, anyone tells you that the Port Charles transit system is a good one, you pop ’em in the mouth. Two hours and five transfers later, we end up in front of Bernie’s building. I figure Dante has about six hours left, give or take. Then the elevator breaks down and that eats another two hours while we wait for the fire department and my tongue on sourdough starts comin’ back on me. Finally, we get outta the elevator, but we’re on the wrong floor. We take the stairs, then we get locked in the stairwell. After an hour of poundin’ on the exit door, some dame lookin’ for the ladies’ room opens it up. We get into Bernie’s office and his gal Friday tells us that Bernie won’t be back until 5:30 . . . ’cause his tee-off time got pushed. I tell the dame that she’s gonna get pushed outta window if she don’t get Bernie back here, pronto.
She gets Bernie on the squawk-box and he says he’ll be on his way as soon as he gets his balls out of the rough. At 6:30, still no Bernie, 6:45 and Dante is dozin’ on a couch in Bernie’s private office. Finally, Bernie walks in with some song and dance about takin’ the Reverend Guzagnelli for all he’s got on the last three holes when he sees Dante, who’s now pretty much unconscious. Bernie stops fast, but doesn’t say anything for a good twenty seconds . . . like he’s considerin’ his options. Then he tries to amscray out the door, only we’re standin’ there . . . me and my pal.
“Easy, easy,” I said. “Why you rushin’ off, Numbers Man? You just got here. You don’t wanna blow when we came such a long way to see you, right? Besides, t
his place smells like a brewery, real hoppy . . . and I like it. Now, tell the broad with the nail file to clock out and sit down. We’re gonna have a chat, see?”
“I don’t know anything,” Bernie said.
“That’s okay,” I said, reachin’ in my pocket. “You be silent. We’ll both be silent.”
I started puttin’ a silencer on the end of the roscoe.
“Okay . . . I’ll talk.”
“Let me wake up Blue Boy,” I said. “He needs to hear whatever you have to say.”
Dante was groggy and weak, but I propped him up against my shoulder and motioned to Bernie with the gun that he should start singin’.
“There’s been a big mistake,” Bernie said, looking at Dante. “This wasn’t supposed to happen . . . not this way.”
“Yeah?” I said. “And exactly what way was it supposed to happen? Whatever it is?”
“I have to make a call,” Bernie said, headin’ for the desk. “Sonny has to know . . .”
“Keep your mitts off that phone!” I said, standin’ up. Unfortunately, Dante crashed back down on the couch.
“Ow.”
“Sorry, pal,” I said, proppin’ him back up against my leg. “Bernie, start talkin’. The guy doesn’t have much time.”
“Well . . . it’s very simple, really. Mr. Corinthos is in the middle of negotiations with a . . . business associate in Venezuela. Talks that could enlarge Mr. Corinthos’s holdings and territory roughly ten times over. Only he and his associate felt that the deal should be set in stone, if you will. The associate has a daughter, slightly younger than you, Mr. Falconeri. Beautiful, from what I am told. And your father and hers decided that a union of the two families would cement the alliance. But yesterday morning, after talking with you and realizing that your love for Ms. Spencer is as strong as ever, Mr. Corinthos knew he needed to take a drastic measure if you were to be free to marry. So I hired a certain Mr. Yakazuki and arranged to have him placed in your favorite sushi restaurant for the evening. It was to be an . . . accident. A poisoning at a local restaurant by a rogue chef, never to be seen or heard from again. You would grieve for a few months, at the end of which your father would suggest a trip. From which you would return . . . with a wife.”
Dante was makin’ noises in his throat, like he was a chained dog. He tried to get up and take a swipe at Bernie, but he fell down like the wheat stalks I used to cut when I worked on the farm in Nebraska.
“It wasn’t supposed to be you, don’t you understand?!” Bernie said.
“Yeah, I don’t think that takes the sting out, Numbers,” I said.
“Ki . . . kill . . . you,” Dante coughed out.
“I’m so sorry,” Bernie kept sayin’. “The two pieces of fish contained just enough poison to kill Ms. Spencer quickly. Dante’s extra weight is what’s causing his prolonged suffering.”
That struck me like a fryin’ pan in the face . . . and if you’ve ever had that happen, you’ll know it can be surprising.
“Dante didn’t eat both pieces,” I said. “He only ate one.”
“Only . . . one?” Bernie said as if I wasn’t speakin’ English. “Then . . . then . . . I think you may be in the clear, my boy.”
Dante tensed up beside me.
“Come again?” I said.
“The instructions were exact,” Bernie went on, excited now, like a kid rattin’ out his sister for smokin’ reefer. “One ounce of venom from the Blue Poison Dart Frog placed in a spicy food to hide the taste. It was all based on Ms. Spencer’s weight. Señor Vaca was very specific when he told Sonny, and Sonny repeated it to me verbatim.”
“Vaca!” I said, takin’ a step forward, which pitched Dante onto the floor. Only I didn’t notice. I was right there, as heated as Bernie, as if I was spillin’ somethin’ on my own sis. “You mean Vicente ‘the Vengeful’ Vaca? That’s who Sonny’s doin’ business with?”
“I am not at liberty to say, but . . . yes.”
“That means drugs, Numbers! You know that, right?”
“Not anymore,” Bernie said. “They’re out of drugs, which is the only reason Mr. Corinthos considered an alliance. They’re into stolen fuel cells and oil/water separators, the kind they use for oil spills.” He looked at Dante, lyin’ on the floor. “You’ll be marrying into a very nice, respectable family now, Mr. Falconeri.”
“I will . . . kill you,” he wheezed. “And my . . . father.”
“What’s gonna happen to him, Numbers?”
“Señor Vaca was not specific regarding Dante on that issue; none of us thought that Dante would ingest the poison. But he did make reference to a few hits he knew of where the victim had taken too little. They became blue . . . that part you already know . . . and their vital signs slowed. But instead of dying, they went into a coma for about a month and came out again right as rain. Some were still the color of a robin’s egg, but not always. Naturally, they had to be hit again.”
“Of course,” I said.
Bernie looked at Dante.
“You won’t have to worry about that, Detective. And I can make arrangements for a day and night nurse if you’d prefer to spend your coma at home.”
I didn’t want to admit Dante back into General Hospital. There would be a lot of questions that I didn’t want to answer. And word would spread.
“Do that,” I said, hoistin’ Dante to his feet. “And call us a cab, pronto. And do yourself a favor, Numbers. Don’t do nothin’ to Lulu Spencer. Her father finds out about this, and he will . . . and he’ll come after the things Sonny values most. The kids will be fine, ’cause Luke Spencer doesn’t off children. Which leaves Sonny’s dough. That’s where your neck gets stretched. I’d take a vacation for a while, capice?”
“Good idea.”
I gave Dante’s address to Bernie and got Dante back into the repaired elevator.
“Hang in there, pal,” I said. “Gonna get you home and you’re gonna stay there for a month. When you come outta this, outta the blue . . . no pun intended . . . you’re gonna be jake, see? You might look like a cornflower, but you’ll be fine where it counts.”
On our way down I did some fast thinkin’: I’d make up a story for Lulu that would keep her away from Dante’s loft for a few days, but that was the best I could hope for. Someone was gonna have to tell her sooner or later. And tellin’ Lulu would be the same as tellin’ Luke. Once Luke found out that Sonny Corinthos had tried to have his daughter killed so that Dante could marry into the fuel-cell mafia, Luke would be on the next plane to Caracas.
I had to get there before he did.
Chapter 15
Damian Spinelli
. . . MIA
I opened my eyes and, for a split second, had no idea where on earth I was. The diner waitress was poking me in the shoulder.
“Listen . . . miss . . . the Jackal paid the bill and told me to let you sleep, but it’s getting on breakfast time, and if you’re not going to order anything else . . . we need the table.”
I raised my head off the formica, realizing that my hair had been soaking in the cold grease from my steak and hash browns. I checked my watch: 6:17 am. I was in the Night Owl, where, presumably, I’d been for the last five or six hours listening to that crazed computer geek and his wild tales. I’d missed my evening with Max: a full body massage and a sexual thrill-ride with the most elastic man in the contiguous United States. I remembered at some point in the evening being almost won over into thinking that Damian Spinelli had actually done everything he’d claimed. Now, in the bright light of day, I couldn’t believe how gullible I’d been. Trapeze artist. Brain surgeon. Freudian analyst. Trombone player!
The boy must be running around Port Charles at that very moment, crowing about how he’d put one over on Diane Miller . . . Esq.! I started to see red. I started to see a court date and litigation for wasting my precious time in the future of one little Grasshopper.
Then I saw the tape recorder on the table with the B side recorded to the end. He must have hit “sto
p” after I’d gone to sleep. And there was my notepad lying beside it, full of scribbles.
“So what’s it gonna be?” asked the waitress.
“Uh . . . yeah, I mean yes, I’ll be going. Just give me a minute to get my things together. You can have the table in a moment.”
“My excitement knows no bounds,” she said, walking away with a hip thrust that screamed “I was supposed to be a dancer!”
I started gathering my belongings, stowing my pen and the recorder in my bag. Then I went for the notepad and, underneath the top page, I saw the corner of a folded white piece of paper poking out. I opened it up and there in black and white was a travel itinerary from Port Charles to Caracas, Venezuela, on a plane that had left at 6:05 that morning and a handwritten note:
Brusque Lady . . .
I humbly thank you for your indulgence of last evening. You are now in possession of the full details of many of the most important events of my life for the past two years . . . or so. I ask that you guard them well and, in the event of my demise, I would only ask that you put them down on paper and give them to my non-bride, Maxie. Tell her that I loved her and will miss her, as Dorothy said to the Scarecrow, “most of all.” I know that you still have your doubts as to the veracity of my ramblings. I have left my travel itinerary as proof. I have no need of it as I have committed it to memory. You may call the airline if you wish and verify that I am on the flight. There is one case whose tale is yet to be told and it is the one on which I find myself now. I shall attempt to send you updates as I am able. Keep a weather eye out for them, if you will. Perhaps we shall meet again . . . if not, it has been an undiluted pleasure . . .
Regards,
The Jackal
So he was on his way. Of course, it would be a piece of cake for a technological whiz like this kid to create a phony itinerary . . . and even have a stooge on the other end of a phone line if I was foolish enough to check up on him. A piece of damn cake.
And yet . . .
The Secret Life of Damian Spinelli Page 19